


waterlily

by gaygiggling



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: ? I think, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Fluff, I have no idea what I'm doing, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Slow Burn, Smut, The Inherent Eroticism of Holding Hands, dtao3, hell yeah, honestly i don't know, just pretend they're all the same age ok, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:26:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28210116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaygiggling/pseuds/gaygiggling
Summary: Clay always had control over his life; everything he started, he finished. He knew exactly what he was doing, until he didn't. He never expected a boy to throw much of a curveball at his plans, but for some reason, some criminally beautiful reason, this boy did.A gentle admiration grows into something bigger, and Clay can't ignore it for much longer.basically high school au!dnf and a fuck ton of pining
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 114
Kudos: 503





	1. liquid gold

**Author's Note:**

> hi i'm agora and i have never written a fanfic in my life LMAO but please be merciful with me. i had this idea floating around in my head for months and i finally put it in words and i don't hate it, and i hope you guys won't to. 
> 
> ** if any of the cc's change their stance about fanfiction written about them i will not hesitate to delete :-) 
> 
> i hope you guys enjoy! sending all my love <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _His voice dripped selfishly like liquid gold, and Clay was poor, hands desperately reaching for more._

The first time he looked at him, it was like he had seen the face of God.

All he remembers is smooth skin over high cheekbones, melted pools of amber in his eyes, and the windchimes whistling in the winter cold. His head had snapped up at the sound of the chimes, his first customer 4 hours into this dead graveyard shift.

He blinked the blear out of his eyes, straightening his posture as he fixed on his customer service smile. His bosses had always complained about the way his smile always seem plastered on and fake, and pointed at the jankily-made sign that read in black Sharpie, “ _Service with a smile!_ ” Clay always scoffed at it; if anyone were at a gas station at 2 in the morning, there’s nothing that could save them, especially not a smile from some stupid cashier.

Clay’s attention was sent hurtling back to the boy in front of him as he barely managed to haul armloads of ramen noodles up onto the table. “Will that be all for today?” He asked, not bothering to look up as he ran the items through the scanner.

“Yeah,” a meek whisper that went almost unheard if it wasn’t for the pin-drop silence in this deserted gas station. Clay finally looked up at the customer.

And all wind left his lungs.

Clay had never seen someone so average, yet so pretty. Freckles littered his pale face, his long brown hair flopped like bangs in front of his forehead. His nose was upturned slightly, cutely. He watched as his thumbs twiddled with the hem of his blue shirt, and he could almost see his eyes light up looking at the packs that lined the walls behind the counter.

Clay cleared his throat. “That’ll be $12.90. Do you want a bag?”

“Yes please,” the boy said, fishing out his wallet. “How much again?”

“$12.90.”

He watched the boy’s nimble fingers, shaking almost, unzip his coin pouch, pouring change onto the cashier table. Clay had half a mind to ask if he needed help before remembering that he had, in fact, asked for a bag. _And very politely at that_ , he added as an afterthought.

He crammed what felt like the thousandth pack of ramen into a criminally small plastic bag. He counted the change on the table before opening the cash register, ignoring the soft, doe eyes that felt like they were burning holes into his face.

“Here’s your change. Have a nice day, come again.” His practiced speech felt foreign on his tongue, like he was putting so much concentration into not fumbling the words, hiding the fact that this boy in front of him made his tongue feel slippery and his heart speed up. He handed the bag over to him, and their fingertips brushed against one another’s. It felt like fire, sending waves of electricity up his joints. He recoiled, and immediately regretted it.

The boy looked stunned for a second, before managing a weak smile. “Thank you,” he squinted slightly, and tilted his head. “Clay." The name rolled off his tongue, like his name was made for this boy to call. "Goodnight.” And with that, he pushed open the heavy glass doors, wind chimes singing as he disappeared into the winter night.

Clay stood frozen his spot for a second, before looking down. His nametag, with his name drawled in black chicken-scratch, was upside down. No wonder he had to squint. He shut his eyes as if in pain. He should have asked for his name.

His nostrils flare, suddenly acutely aware of the foreign smell of pinecone and lighter fluid. He burrowed his head in his hands, recalling the feeling of the boy’s fingertips on his again, and again, and again.

* * *

If there was anything Clay hated more than his graveyard shifts at the gas station, it was the mornings after his shift. He debated- for the fourth time this week- just skipping school altogether, going home and getting some sleep. But he knew that he was too criminally behind classes to get away with it.

So here he was at the bus stop, hunched over himself, with his overdue homework balanced on his knee, and Sapnap’s half-assed work next to it. He knew the consequences of copying without really learning, but it was at this point of his life where he couldn’t give two fucks about anything more than passing.

The winter morning was almost beautiful. Almost, if he had the proper clothes to bundle up and feel comfortable, if he didn’t have to wait 20 minutes in the whipping winds and biting cold for the stupid bus to take him to school. His fingers were turning blue, frozen to the point it hurt to bend them, and he could see his breaths crystallise as they left his mouth.

“Are you almost done?” Sapnap plopped himself down on the side of the bench next to him, watching as he gripped his pen harder.

“Stop watching me,” Clay gritted through his teeth. _This day literally could not get any worse_ , he thought.

Sapnap laughingly raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, dude, don’t need to get aggressive.” Silence dripped like honey between them, thick and palpable, until Sapnap spoke up again. “Long shift again?”

“As always.” Clay’s voice was gruff, his thundering mood clearly etched in the curve of his frown, and in the deep inhale he took. “Sorry, man. I’m just tired.”

“”S alright, I’m just worried about you.”

Clay debated telling him about the fever dream of a boy last night, about how his voice was soft and flitted through the air like the windchime that had announced his arrival, about his long, nimble fingers that wore holes into his shirt. _About how Clay had gone home and let the thought of his smile creep into his mind while his hand snuck under the waistband of his shorts._

The bus rolled into sight, crunching its way through inches of thick snow and asphalt. He scrambled to stand, gathering the papers haphazardly in his hands as Sapnap flagged down the bus.

Sapnap and Clay had been friends for years. He was Clay’s only real friend; everyone else was granted a tight-lipped smile and a small “hello” as they passed in the hallways. But Sapnap- Clay was glad to have him around, to fill in silent gaps that he left in his awkwardness. There was no need for conversation, no need for pleasantries to ease the tension. It was just him, Sapnap, and the mutual acknowledgement that the empty seat on the bus next to Clay’s be filled by him and only him.

Clay hitched his knees up against the seat in front of him, ignoring the glare from the kid in front. If he hadn’t had his work to do, he would have stared silently at the soft orange glow of the streetlamps, a small escape from the stuffy atmosphere and mildew in the air of the bus. He shook his head jarringly, and refocused his attention to his work.

He wondered suddenly if the boy from last night did the same thing- leave work till last minute, cramming someone else’s answers and making mistakes here and there in a feeble attempt to salvage some kind of dignity from this worksheet. He smiled at the thought. Clay’s mind flitted to last night, the boy’s fingers, his eyes, his smile, Clay’s hands wandering south to his-

The bus lurched to an ungraceful stop. He coughed, shifting to push down his unforgiving semi. Sapnap glanced over at him, but thought nothing of it.

The rumble of the bus made his illegible handwriting even shakier, and in his mind he felt bad for whichever teacher was going to be forced to read it. The orange glow of the streetlamps dimmed and rose rhythmically, and eventually he gave up waiting for the split second of light to illuminate Sapnap’s slanted handwriting.

He leaned his head back, letting himself rest even for a few seconds as the bus slowed to a stop. Sleep-deprived students shuffled off the bus in herds, each holding their jackets a little tighter against their bodies for even a sliver of solace from the cold January morning. Clay trained his gaze on the snow piling on the floor, ridden over by skids of shoes and heavy-laden steps laced with teenage exhaustion.

His shoulder collided sharply with another, and he snapped his head up the exact moment his victim’s did, and he found himself staring right into the same eyes he did the night before. Wide, brown eyes clouded over with concern. The words “I’m so sorry,” fell from his lips, and Clay couldn’t help himself from staring at them. Red, puffy from the cold. He wondered what they would look like kiss-bitten.

The hearth beneath his heart breathed softly, glowing embers fluttering from its mouth as the boy bent down to pick up his books. He realised he’d been standing there, unmoving and silent for far too long, and dropped to a crouch. “Sorry,” he managed in a gruff voice. “I wasn’t looking.”

A small laugh, the tinkling of faerie wings. “Don’t worry about it.” The boy stood, and stuck his hand out in front of him, and Clay looked at it incriminatingly. He gingerly placed his hand in it, pushing away thoughts about how small, how soft, how gentle, and pulled himself up. “Thanks for helping.”

His voice dripped selfishly like liquid gold, and Clay was poor, hands desperately reaching for more. He smiled, that same smile that made Clay’s lungs ( _and groin_ , he thought to himself) feel caged, pushing against its restraints, and then just as fast as he had appeared, he vanished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if ur reading this thank u for reading. all criticism, suggestions n comments are welcome! honestly i don't really expect anyone to see this but if you do let me know if you'd like more of it :-) thank you again and let me know what you think <3
> 
> agora  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/agowa_)  
> [tumblr](https://meltiers.tumblr.com)


	2. liminal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _He felt vulnerable, powerless against the torrent of his own racing thoughts, put to sleep by the low humming of his fan. He slipped further and further into dreamless sleep, his thoughts slowly dying down into oblivion._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas everyone! this is for the four people having a party in my comments in the last chapter. thank you all for the kindest words, it really made my day! here's chapter two as promised.. a little dive into clay's family life, and a little spicy number at the end hehe
> 
> enjoy!

“You’re burning the pancakes.”

The voice came from behind him, teasing with an undertone of concern. Clay looked up from the granite countertops, his brain breaking from the lapping waters of his thoughts. His sister stood behind him, leaning on the doorway. Her words registered in his head a millisecond later, and he looked back down at the pan. The pan hissed at him, chiding his negligence, and the pancakes were blackening at the edges. “Oh fuck,” he muttered.

He shoveled the pancakes onto a plate. “I can’t salvage this, can I?” His sister simply laughed, taking the plate from his hands, and tipping the contents into the bin. He bit back an argument he couldn’t support, and wrung his hands weakly in front of her.

“Leave it to me and mom,” she said softly. “I know you’re tired.” There’s a hint of knowing in her words, an undertone of understanding and caution. Like she knew something, everything, anything, that he never dared let out into the world.

Guilt bleared Clay’s vision at its corners and his sister turned her back to him, muttering about how she’d have to scrape remnants of the poor pancakes off with her bare hands. “How did you know?” His voice scratched the back of his throat in an attempt to sound normal. “I didn’t work a shift last night.”

“I heard you leave.” She didn’t even bother turning around. “You don’t have to hide, you know.”

He looked down at his hands, stained with soot and his night’s troubles. His nails, beds caked in dirt, made him shudder. It was a night he wished he didn’t live. He said that every time, that he wouldn’t do it again, he would stay in bed, he would will himself under the blanketing, gawking sense of comfort of his quilt, and just stay. And every time, he found himself blinking back tears as he ran through the torrents of his thoughts. Every time, he found himself standing back in the same place.

“I miss him.”

She turned around finally. “Me too.”

There was an unspoken bond between the two of them. They never cried, not in front of each other, never in front of their mother. Clay’s hand came up to card a trembling hand through his hair, sandy blonde streaked with brown and black and tainted by his regrets. She was so much stronger than him, he knew.

His voice mirrored the gentle snowfall outside, cautious, weary, fragile. “I’m gonna take a shower now.”

“Okay.” She nodded. “Take a nap, while you’re at it.”

The moment he shut his door, his mind wandered back to the night before. To the stinging cold and the whispers in the trees, mocking and taunting him. He thought back to his footfalls crunching the fresh snow. He thought of the boy, his smile burning a hole through the center of his sternum, leaving a pleasant ache in its wake.

The sting of the morning cold had subsided into an unmoving staleness of the air. Clay peeled himself off the surface of the wall, making his way into the bathroom. Stripping, he sidestepped the mound of soiled and snow-damp clothing, shuddering from the sharp bite of the frosty air.

Hot water hit his chest in smoking streams. He leaned against the ceramic tiling, watching as soap-sudded water flowed steadily down the drain. The heat lifted the tension that heaved his shoulders, and slowly he breathed, calming the erratic pulsing of his heart.

Clay ducked his head under the running water, relishing in the solace of warmth before he would have to face the winter cold again. He closed his eyes, feeling his eyes pinprick with the slightest of tears, letting the world around him deafen to a rumble.

As he stepped out of the shower, he glanced sideways at the mirror, frosted over with a sheen of dew. He found his arm stretching out before him, drawing a lopsided smiley face with the tip of his finger. He looked at himself through the narrow reflection, and for the first time in days, smiled right back.

* * *

Clay was back in the gas station that night. The light outside flickered every so often, its resident moth making its home right in the socket. A thumping bass line pumped through his headphones as he chewed on the back of a pencil. The growing pile of homework had called his name for hours, and as he sat restlessly, watching for nobody at all, he succumbed to it.

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t waiting for the boy to show up again. He would also be lying if he said that he didn’t deliberately volunteer for the graveyard shifts in that same bounding hope. But three hours in, and all he had encountered was a drunk old man looking for another fix of beer, and a rather professional-looking man in a suit and a nervous look in his eye.

The peace and quiet was one of Clay’s biggest reasons to volunteer. He was very much better off in total silence, only tending to the occasional customer, than in the middle of the day, where he would have to actually interact with his patrons.

“That has got to fuck up your sleep schedule,” Sapnap had remarked earlier that afternoon, as they sat in their spot under the school bleachers. “Like, do you even get sleep?”

“Sometimes,” Clay replied, through a mouthful of a Subway sandwich. “It gets fucking deserted around 2.”

“Yeah, because every normal person is asleep.”

Clay had laughed softly, trying to hide his grin. “Not you. You’re up playing Minecraft till 4.”

“At least it’s in the comfort of my own home! Why would you even take night shifts, man?”

To that, he didn’t answer. He didn’t feel the need to let Sapnap know just yet the real reason he was staying up all night, mopping the ramen noodle aisle twice over just in case. His heart ached just thinking about the boy, the dull pulse of background anxiety as he debated how he was going to greet him.

_Hi! I’m Clay._ Too cheery. It was a gas station, not a motor roadshow. Why would he even give him his name?

_Welcome to the gas station._ Fuck no. What the hell was that?

_Fancy seeing you here in the middle of the night._ Now that was just creepy. Clay’s head thudded on his stack of SAT prep, contemplating just turning over the “OPEN!” sign to CLOSED, burrowing his head on the least uncomfortable part of his knapsack and just getting a few minutes of sleep before the morning shifters came in and frowned down on his irresponsibility. Was there a point to staying up if no one was going to come in? If they boy wasn’t going to come in?

The windchimes tinkled ever so slightly, but Clay’s head whipped up in milliseconds. _Speak of the devil and he doth appear._ He straightened his posture, his homework gone, forgotten, abandoned on the table as he watched this enigma of a boy wander through the aisles of the tiny gas station.

His periwinkle blue cardigan looked soft to the touch. Clay wanted to touch it. Clay wanted to touch way more than that. _Stop it._

He grabbed his mop and his feet took him to the aisle behind the boy, busying himself with scrubbing away years-old stains that he knew were never coming out. If he really concentrated, he could just about hear the boy humming a low tune to himself. Admiration pooled low and simmering in Clay’s ribcage, and he almost smiled to himself.

“Hello.”

He turned to the source of the voice, low and gentle. “Hi.”

They looked at each other for a beat of a second. “You’re the boy I bumped into that day at school.”

Clay managed a weak grin. “That’s me.”

There was an undertone of curiosity in the boy’s voice, blanketed by just a twinge of an accent Clay couldn’t quite put his finger on. His voice was low, cadence steady, confident. Clay wanted to hear it again.

“If, uh-“ He started, his tongue already fumbling unfamiliarly in his mouth. “When you’re ready, i can check you out- I mean! Check your items out. Because I’m the cashier. That’s me.” He winced. “The cashier.” _Holy fuck. I knew you were unprepared, but not_ that _unprepared._

But the boy’s laugh didn’t seem forced, or fake. “Okay. You’re the cashier.”

Clay stalked cautiously away from him, his brows pinched together. _Holy shit. Holy mother of God. That was terrible. You know how terrible that was right? Holy shit._ He propped the mop up against the wall behind the counter, and stared blankly at his homework.

He looked down at his nametag, this time the right side up. He watched the boy as he shuffled through each aisle, arms again full of the same packs of ramen he had bought the last time.

“Is that all for today?” Clay asked once he reached the counter. He wanted to drag this encounter on for as long as he could, keep the drifting scent of pinecone and lavender around, maybe even have a name to match to this face.

A second of hesitation passed between the two of them. “Yeah, I think so.”

Clay ran his items through the scanner. “You really like your ramen, don’t you?” The boy laughed softly, a small huff of breath, and an even gentler “yeah”.

He couldn’t find anything else to say to fill in the seconds of awkward silence between the two of them, but the boy could. “You were here the last time I came.”

_He remembers._ “Yeah, that was me. There’s no way you got through all that ramen in a week.” His tone was teasing, but the anxiety was gnawing at his stomach.

“Hey,” the boy laughed, high-pitched. “It wasn’t just me. I have a family to feed.”

“With ten packs of the same ramen?”

The boy only smiled, watching as Clay piled his packs into a plastic bag. “That’ll be $10.90.”

Coins spilled out onto the cashier table, the boy’s small fingers poking out of his oversized sleeve to count and push them in Clay’s direction. “Do you work every night?”

_Yeah, so I can see you again._ “Not all. This week they were short staffed, so I took over some shifts.” _That’s not true_.

The boy nodded. “Your name’s Clay, right?”

The sound of his name dropping from his lips is enough the send warmth pooling in his groin. It felt so different from anyone else saying it, like his lips was made to say it. Like his name was made to be called by him.

“Yeah.”

The few seconds of silence were tense. “My name’s George.”

_George._ What an ordinary, run-of-the-mill name. But somehow, it fit him, him in all his cheekboned glory, pools of melted amber in his eyes. “George.” It felt surprisingly comfortable in his mouth. _Finally, a name to match the face._ “It’s a nice name.”

George smiled, toothy and innocent. “So’s yours. Can I have my bag?”

Clay remembered suddenly his grip on the bag. “Oh fuck. Sorry.” He hoisted it over the countertop to George, whose hand came up to take it. He’s almost careful not to brush his hand against the other boy’s.

“Goodnight. I’ll see you around?” He turned to leave, pulling open the heavy glass doors. Clay’s eyes were trained on him as he walked out, and raised his hand to wave a small goodbye. His awkwardness melted into a small smile as he waved back, mouthing a “Goodnight!”.

George grinned, sticking a thumbs up before disappearing into the early morning grey.

He pinched himself, making sure that whole encounter wasn’t just a product of the liminality of the fluorescent lights. Alone now, all he could think about was the way George said his name. He had never felt that way, pliant and open and malleable, like he was putty in George’s hands. Like he was vulnerable.

He was vulnerable, as he trudged back home in the stinging cold. He was vulnerable, as he kicked off his shoes and got under the covers. He was vulnerable, as he abandoned all shame for the warmth of his hand of his groin. He was vulnerable, as he fucked up into his hand, crying with need and desperation and _George_ , _George, please._

He was vulnerable as tears pricked the back of his eyes, wishing it wasn’t his hand sliding up and down his shaft, but softer, gentler, smaller. Nimble fingers and his periwinkle blue cardigan shoved haphazardly up his forearms, stroking him faster. Clay was gone to the world, lost in a haze of pleasure, dreaming of George’s red lips stretched by his throbbing cock, aching for release.

He thought about kissing him, pressing his body into the wall of his bedroom, licking into his mouth with the fervency of a thousand suns, laying dormant for years just to come alive in George’s arms. Maybe George would give in, melt into Clay’s mouth and fist his hands into his cotton t-shirt. Clay would move his lips, drag them from George’s red, kiss-bitten mouth, trailing over the expanse of his neck, the unmarred canvas of his collarbone. Clay would bite and he would feel George keen in his arms, begging for more. He’d leave bruises, and George would love them.

Maybe his hands would dip down to George’s groin, unbuckling and zipping down, shucking off his pants in renowned fervour. He’d grind his clothed erection against the other boy’s and it would almost be too much. _Almost_. He wouldn’t stop until he had George pinned underneath him, brown hair fanning out like a halo. He imagined George, in heated desperation, canting his hips to meet Clay’s, begging for more, blabbering dumbly, _Clay, fuck me, fuck me please._

Clay came with George’s name echoing on his lips. Shame clouded his vision as he cleans himself off, scolding himself for acting like some hormonal teenage boy who comes in his pants within seconds of stimulation. He felt dirty, wrong for jacking off to some boy who probably never wanted anything to do with him.

He felt vulnerable, powerless against the torrent of his own racing thoughts, put to sleep by the low humming of his fan. He slipped further and further into dreamless sleep, his thoughts slowly dying down into oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wew! ok truth be told i've never written anything like that before so plEase tell me if that went well. as always, all comments and criticism are welcome! let me know if you guys would like a part three because i'm honestly now kinda invested in panning out this story...
> 
> happy holidays to whoever celebrates, and i'll see you soon!
> 
> agora  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/agowa_)  
> [tumblr](https://meltiers.tumblr.com)


	3. graveyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _There it was, muttered into the world, spoken into existence. Clay’s fingertips were frozen as he held the stone in his hands, shaking with the confession to nobody, yet also the whole world._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year everybody! so sorry for the long wait, i've been kinda caught up with school things. this chapter hit home a bit closer than i expected, which is also why i wanted to make sure it was perfect before i posted it. as usual, enjoy!

Clay slept right through his alarm.

Sunlight peered through the cracks between his curtains, gazing in quiet curiosity at Clay’s slumbering figure. His phone went off in a soft melody beside his head, waking him up slowly.

He heard first the scratching at his door. Getting up, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he opened the door. A soft, furry welcome nuzzled against his ankle. He smiled softly.

“Good morning, girl,” he whispered, crouching down to scratch Patches’ chin. “Hungry, huh?”

She purred in response and rolled onto the floor at his feet. Clay straightened back up, letting the morning greet him before realizing the sun was brighter than it should be. His brows pinched in quizzical confusion, reaching back to his bed to grab his phone. _9:34am_ blinked back at him in white.

_Missed call from: Sapnap (3)_

_Message from: Sapnap_

**dude where the hell are you**

**are you still sleeping LMAOOOO**

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Sorry, lovely, I’ll get you your food later.” He opened his messages, crafting a short **holy fuck, dude i slept through all my alarms** before drawing back his curtains. His mother’s car had left tire tracks in the snow. No car, no bus- meaning a 40-minute walk to school. He groaned out loud, cursing himself under his breath.

His phone buzzed in his hand. **just stay home man** , Sapnap had replied. **no point coming now. pretend you’re sick.**

**i can’t, man. don’t we have a test in calculus later?**

**are you fucking serious right now?**

Clay threw his phone down on the bed, jumping into the shower and head-first into the unheated water. He shuddered under the icy streams, the chill waking him up and focusing his eyes. He breathed in slowly, relishing in small space that he had, just his own.

_George_. His mind wandered through fields of melancholy and pining back to last night. George, his ten packs of instant ramen, his periwinkle cardigan. The way Clay’s name fell from his lips. If he focused hard enough, he could just about hear his voice again.

The water shut off with a squeak. He stepped out, shimmying on the first pair of jeans and random sweatshirt he pulled out of his closet. His gaze landed on his pajamas, stained with shame and sin of last night, and kicked it under his bed, vowing noncommittedly to bring it to the laundry later.

Patches followed him into the kitchen, yowling softly for her breakfast. “Slow down,” he chuckled. “I haven’t even gotten my own.” He yanked the fridge door open, surveying its contents. Just some ham and bread. Tearing off a small piece, he threw it towards Patches. She mewled contently, lapping noisily at the meat.

Kibble filled the metal pan with a clatter, and fresh water in her bowl. “That should keep you filled till dinner, yeah?” He nudged her softly with the tip of his foot. “I’ll see you later.”

Patches mewled softly, before turning her attention back to her food. Clay kicked open the door, hands occupied with his bookbag and makeshift breakfast, beginning the icy trudge. His shoes crunched loudly in the fresh snow. It dampened the canvas of his sneakers, but he paid it no mind. As melted chill was starting to creep up his foot, he shook it free, and continued.

_Detention, at worst_ , he thought to himself. He couldn’t afford to miss the last non-final graded test of his high school career just because he concussed right after he jacked his brains off to some stranger he had only just met. He laughed hollowly at the thought now. _How stupid._

He kicked a small pebble into the gutter. He hated how his thoughts got the better of him, how he had let his hormonal urges spill over his hand and into his boxer shorts. The gentle wind sung to him, high-pitched and left his ears red-tipped. His trembling breaths crystallised into vapour, carried by the wind into the sky. His mind, deep in thought, accompanied by the rhythmic sloshing of sleet under his shoes.

“Clay?”

A voice so soft that, had he had his earphones jammed into his ear canals, he wouldn’t have heard it. A voice that felt so familiar. He felt his chest burn at the thought, and he turned around slowly. _Please, don’t be him- don’t be here right now._

“George?” He found himself saying. “What are you-“

“I overslept.” He was jogging slightly to catch up to him, his stupid periwinkle cardigan hanging off his shoulders. “You’re headed to school?”

Clay watched as snow fell gently, catching in his soft brown hair, in his long eyelashes. His nose blushed red at the tip, and his mouth crimson. He swallowed thickly. “Yeah, I am.” His feet shuffled awkwardly. “I overslept too.”

George’s mouth quirked up slightly at the corner. “We can walk together. I would usually take my car, but it’s in the shop right now, which is such bad fucking timing, am I right?” His giggle set off a rogue butterfly in Clay’s stomach, nervousness numbing the tips of his fingers. He laughed along, saying nothing, and turned so now they stood side-by-side.

He watched the floor as they walked together, ever so slightly out of sync. Clay was tall- he knew that, he knew he had long legs, and he knew he walked fast. He just didn’t realise how fast until he watched as George’s paced doubled just to keep up with him. He glanced to his right slightly- watched as the boy next to him blew air out in attempt to keep warm.

He turned back. The cold air stung his nose, but he kept the steady pace of his heavy breathing. Their hands brushed against each other’s, slow but dragging friction riling up Clay’s ruined heartbeat.

George broke the silence first. “I dreamt about you last night.”

The wires in Clay’s brain short circuited. He blinked rapidly. _Did he just say that? Did I mishear?_ “What?”

“I dreamt about you last night.” He said again. There was no trace of hesitation, as if it was lighthearted, like those words carried no weight for him at all. “It was nice to see a familiar face in my dreams.”

_Familiar face._ “What was it about?” Clay swallowed his inflating ego down, but the tips of his fingers remained painfully electric.

George scrunched his face up, squinting at the sun. “I don’t really remember. I just remember being with you.” Clay’s face flushed red. He craned his neck down to hide it from him, but George just laughed. “Maybe that’s why I overslept. I didn’t want to leave you.”

_He has no idea what this is doing to me._ Clay’s breath left him trembling, shaky as it turned into vapour. He couldn’t stop the blood coursing through his veins, hissing like a red-hot snake. It rushed through his ears. “That’s nice,” was all he managed to say.

George managed to catch the hesitance in his voice, and laid his hand gently on his arm. “Hey man,” he started softly. “I don’t mean to be weird. Sorry if I made this weird.”

His response was immediate. “No! No, it’s not weird.” _Yeah, it kinda is._ “I’ve just- No one’s ever said something like that to me before.”

And that was the end of that. George just hummed in understanding, and their footfalls fell into sync, as if the silence threaded through both of their bodies and matched up melodically. Clay’s mind wandered through each syllable and each intonation of each syllable, the cadence and the silence. He looked over at the smaller boy. _He has no idea what this is doing to me. It doesn’t mean anything to him, does it?_

George cleared his throat. “You know, when I moved here, I didn’t think I’d make many friends.” His voice was soft, treading on cautious. “I resented my dad for making us move here. But when I see the snow, I forgive him just a little.”

They looked up into the blinding white, gentle snowfall wedging its way into their conversation. George continued.

“I don’t know many people around here. But I’m glad I got to know you.”

“You don’t know that much about me.” He regretted the words the second they left his mouth.

George laughed hollowly. “I guess so. But you’re probably the closest I’ll ever get to a friend in this town.”

Silence. The crunching of the snow under their shoes punctuated their conversation. “I think I know what you’re talking about.” Clay said, finally. He wondered if George was feeling the same pang of heartache, of longing as he was. The boy’s voice was burning, singing a hole right in the centre of Clay’s sternum. He tested his voice slowly. “Would you want to be friends?”

He couldn’t see the boy’s face, but he could hear the small smile growing on his face. “I would like to, if you would let me.”

Silence again. Then, Clay felt his own hand move, encompassed by another, softer, smaller, warmer. George was holding his hand.

He looked down, and sure enough, his bare hand was intertwined with another pale hand. George brought it up to his face, and he could feel a pen inking into his skin. Clay’s hand was almost trembling. It felt heavy, tainted and ladened with longing and admiration.

“My number,” George said, letting it go. “if you ever need it.”

Clay drew his hand back cautiously. The second George let go, he craved again the light grace of his exhilarating touch. His hand felt empty, but now it donned the beginning of something else, the beginning of Clay’s own end. George would be the cause of Clay’s end.

“Thank… you,” Clay almost whispered. He brought it up to his face, memorizing the curves and the scratches in George’s ink on the back of his palm. “I’ll text you.”

George smiled. “I’ll be waiting.”

They walked in silence for the rest of the way, hands just about touching, but neither possessing the shame nor the courage to dive head-first into something entirely foreign.

Sapnap’s was the first face to greet him at the entrance of the school. George disappeared without so much so as a “goodbye,” leaving Clay to watch after him as he weaved his way through throngs of students to his next class.

“Hey man,” Sapnap’s warm hand came up to rest exactly where George’s one was. He much preferred George’s, smaller, softer. “Everything okay? You seem… off.”

Guilt shot him point-blank in the gut. “Yeah, no, I’m fine.” He forced a smile between his lips, and continued walking.

* * *

Clay stared blankly at his phone for hours. He’d already put George’s number into his contacts, his fingers hesitant as they typed the G, E, O, R, G, E.

Patches lay, rumbling softly as she slept at his feet. He watched her. “Lucky you,” he muttered. “You never have to go through these kinds of things.” His hand reached out to smooth her fur behind her ears, and she keened at the touch.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He smiled softly.

It had turned dark hours ago, but Clay forwent the decision to switch on his lamp. He lay in still silence, his room only illuminated by his idle computer monitor, and his open, yet still empty, conversation channel with GEORGE.

_Hi,_ he typed. Should he add his name? Would George be expecting a text from him, would he just _know_?

_“I dreamt about you last night.”_ His words felt miles away, yet still so close, his tone melodic as Clay reached, stretched out his arm and reached to catch it, but only ending up with wordless air and dissolving resolve.

_What did you dream about, George?_ While he was busy making acquaintance between his hand and the inside of his boxer shorts, was George asleep, subconscious riled awake by the sound of Clay’s voice? Did George dream of him the same way Clay thought of him?

The _Hi_ lay forgotten as he rested, laying his arm over his eyes, thinking. Just thinking. His thoughts were deafening- racing, fighting their way to the forefront of his conscious mind.

He sat up abruptly. The slithers of uncertainty made home through his arteries and into his irregular beating heart. _What do I do?_ His mind raced- he didn’t know what to make of any of this, George’s soft and gentle advancements, his touches feather light and almost teasing on Clay’s arm. Shame coiled in his gut and lust in his groin- but he took no notice of either of them. He wrenched the covers off his bare legs.

Patches mewled in confusion, eyes blinking sleepily at Clay. He barely had room in his thought for a “I’m sorry”, before he was tugging on his sweats and the nearest crewneck he could reach. _What do I do?_ He felt the familiar pinprick of tears as he imagined George’s hand in his own again, again, again. He imagined what it would feel like, carefully bringing up his hand to his mouth, kissing it with the tenderness of the sea, white-capped and lulling, beckoning him into something he couldn’t control.

_Dad, what do I do?_ He yanked open his door, needing breath, needing the fresh sting of the January air. _I don’t know what to do_. He’d never felt like this about anyone before. The girls he had once thought attractive were long ago buried in the cemetery of his forgotten lives, and even then, he had never felt so compelled to another person. He had never felt so strongly the pull into another’s arms. _I don’t know what to do._

He was out. His jog turned slowly to a run, as he pounded the pavements down a path sewn into his feet. He knew exactly where he was going- where he went every night that felt years long, every night he couldn’t drown the inhibitions and the tides of his own racing insecurities.

_Did you do it to hurt me?_ Tears began to blear his vision, lights foggy and incomprehensible. He ran a forearm to wipe them away, but they came faster than he could control them. _Why did you leave me?_

He stopped. The cold air swarmed him, drawn to his warmth. He looked up at the sky, streaked with navy and grey. Stars speckled his vision as he approached the gate cautiously, slowly, apprehensively.

“Sometimes I feel like you did it to fuck with me.” He spoke to nobody. “Like you’re not actually gone. You’re just pulling a prank on me.”

The gravestone didn’t respond.

“I always come here to talk to you about these kinds of things.” He continued. His voice was small in the vastness of the winter night. “Feelings I can’t comprehend. Thoughts so strong I don’t know how to deal with them.”

He sat down. The ground was cold, frozen, dead. He continued. “I’ve never felt this way for anybody before. I didn’t know I could feel this much since you-“ He stopped short, and swallowed thickly. “Since you left. I thought you took my feelings with you. I thought something was wrong with me. But he…”

He cried. His tears were warm against his frozen cheeks, his ribs hurting as he racked up sobs he never knew he was capable of feeling.

“He’s the first thing I’ve felt in ages.”

There it was. There it was, muttered into the world, spoken into existence. Clay’s fingertips were frozen as he held the stone in his hands, shaking with the confession to nobody, yet also the whole world. He knew not a reckoning comparable to this, not since his father died.

He stood. Took out his cellphone, and pressed, ‘Call’.

The line trilled softly. _Should I be doing this? He’s asleep, isn’t he._ Clay held his breath. _Hang up. Hang up. Hang u-_

“Clay?”

He breathed for the first time in his life. “I need to talk to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :') yeah okay. as usual, all comments and criticism are welcome! please let me know if you enjoyed this chapter and/or wanna see more. sending all my love to everyone this new year! be blessed and all my love <3
> 
> agora
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/agowa_)   
>  [tumblr](https://meltiers.tumblr.com)


	4. achilles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _Their veins intertwined under their skin, jolting electricity running up the nerve endings of Clay’s elbow. 'I’ve never felt something like this,' he thought. 'Like you.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone! agora's back with another chapter. i really kinda wrote this one based on an experience i had, and also i wanted to churn something out to combat the ongoing existentialism i'm battling :P it's a bit of a long one, so get some water and relax. enjoy!

“You know, when you call me in the middle of the fucking night, I was expecting more of an emergency.”

Sapnap’s car rumbled softly in idle, headlights illuminating the lifeless graveyard. Clay didn’t turn around. He didn’t have to. Sapnap spoke again. “Why are you here?”

“I don’t know.” That was a lie. He knew exactly why he was there.

The silence between them was palpable, concern wrapped tightly in the gentle touches of Sapnap’s reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You’ve been here a couple of times, haven’t you?”

Clay didn’t answer. Sapnap continued.

“Your sister tells me, sometimes.” He still hadn’t looked Sapnap in the eyes. “She tells me some nights you don’t come back till morning. It’s almost like you sleep here.”

He had. A couple of times, when the night air wasn’t as biting, or as unwelcoming. He would make home in the patch of grass right next to the stone. He knew it was a little creepy, maybe even sacrilegious, to sleep on soil six feet above dead and decomposing bodies, but it was the closest he ever felt to his father.

“I’m sorry I called you here.”

“Don’t be.” Sapnap crouched, reeling in his shoulder to make him look at him. “I care about you, Clay. I know something’s wrong. You know I never like to pry but,” he stopped, thinking over his next few words. “I’m worried about you. So is your sister.”

Sapnap’s eyes burned right through his soul, leaving a warm glow eating away at the chilled ashes of Clay’s heart. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Come on. Let’s go home.”

“Wait.” He caught on to Sapnap’s sleeve. “Can you just… sit with me here? For a while?”

Sapnap’s voice melted into pools of steady affirmation, letting Clay wade in cautiously. “Of course.” He dipped ungracefully, pulling one leg on top of the other as he sat, sidled up to Clay’s side. “Hello, Clay’s dad.”

Clay broke into a watery smile, before giving way to a small laugh. Together, they watched days rise and break, hours fall away into minutes. _Thank you,_ were the words that rose and died on his tongue, never seeing the light of day. How could he thank Sapnap for this? How could a _Thank you_ ever be enough?

He decided to try.

“Thank you.” His voice was hoarse, product of the unforgiving cold and his tears. “For being here.”

Sapnap said nothing, but an arm came around to pull Clay into his warmth.

He dropped him back home after hours had passed. “Do you need me to come in?” He asked, as they pulled up in front of Clay’s house. He looked on, staring at the house. The whole street felt eerie, almost desolate, darkness swarming as shadows danced along fences and swayed with the wind.

He wanted to say no. He wanted to be stoic, selfless, strong in front of his friend. But with a quivering voice, he looked back at Sapnap, and whispered, “Yeah.”

In easy silence, they made their way into Clay’s house, drying their mud-caked sneakers on the welcome mat. “Go to bed, Clay.” He seemed to look right through Clay’s soul, his dark eyes burning through walls of plexiglass and cement that he had built around himself. Without being told, he seemed to just _know_. “I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

Clay said nothing. Sapnap placed a hand gingerly on the door handle to let himself out, looking back at the other boy one last time. “Stay safe.” He turned and pushed the door handle.

He breathed. “Thank you, Nick.” Sapnap seemed to flinch at the use of his real name, before softening slightly. He turned back around.

“Clay, I…” His voice hovered in the space between them. It felt like miles, light years between them, but somehow, Clay had never felt so close to anyone before. “I know you like to keep to yourself. But there’s a reason you called me tonight. Something changed.” His words pierced Clay through his sternum, right in the centerfold of his heart. “Something changed tonight. And when you’re ready to be honest to yourself, and to me, let me know.”

His heart sank. “I’m sorry.”

A soft smile. “Don’t be. It takes time. Take all the time you need. Just,” he paused. “don’t hurt yourself by lying, Clay.”

Weight dropped the door handle, and Sapnap stepped out. As the door shut, he crumpled. Heat flashed under his skin every so often as he staggered under the weight of his confession. _He’s the first thing I felt in ages._ Why couldn’t he tell Sapnap? Why couldn’t he find his tongue, slashed out of his mouth and scattered in pieces on the hard wood floor? As he dragged his heavy-laden corpse to bed, a small purr welcomed him home.

“Hi honey,” he cooed, bending down to scoop Patches into his arms. “I’m sorry for just now.”

She mewled in response, nuzzling her face into his chest. _Come sleep,_ the action told him.

“I know, I will.” He carried her to his bedroom, letting her nest in the fortress of pillows and blankets. “Stay there, okay? I’ll be right back.”

His feet carried him into the bathroom, where he stripped himself of his soiled clothing. He looked at himself in the mirror, memorising the rise and fall of his chest as his breathing steadied. _He’s the first thing I’ve felt in ages._

The bed was cold where he left it. “C’mere,” he beckoned Patches with two gentle taps to the spot next to him. “I think neither of us want to be alone right now, right?” Patches purred in response, curling up next to his warmth.

Clay lay back down, fishing for his phone. Garish white spilled from his hands, illuminating the dark room. The _Hi_ from hours before lay before him, ready to be sent into the world, ready to toss him head-first into the uncontrollable. He was dipping his toes in unchartered waters. 

He wondered if George was asleep, or if he was awake still, clutching his phone the phone way Clay was now. Was he waiting? Was he expecting a text from Clay? He cursed softly. What if he had kept him waiting for too long?

His thumb hovered over the send button, before finally, finally, pressing it. He watched as text turned from black to white in a little blue bubble. He expected panic, some kind of electric anxiety, but in his heart lay a steady beat and a glowing golden. _You’re the first thing I’ve felt in ages._

He let his phone fall from his hand into the empty canvas expense of his bed, and ran a hand over the hair behind Patches’ ear. He was tired, he couldn’t deny it. Trying to get as much sleep in the hour before dawn broke, he felt himself being pulled slowly into a quiet slumber, and he started to succumb.

His phone buzzed next to him.

Surprise coursed through his veins, soon replaced with the familiar nervousness. As he picked up his phone, he found his questions answered.

**I was just wondering if you’d forgotten to text.**

****

Raw emotion bloomed in Clay’s sternum. He couldn’t fight the small smile that started to grow as he read and reread the text.

**i got carried away with the time.**

**It’s okay. You’re here now.**

Every buzz in his hands shook him more and more awake, until he sat up against his headboard.

**why aren’t you sleeping?**

A bubble with three dots rose. **I’ve been waiting for you.**

_I’ve been waiting for you my whole life._ **well, i’m sorry to keep you up.**

A fire kindled in his stomach, growing and growing with every text sent back and forth. His mind clouded over with the thoughts of George, just streets away from him, lay in bed just like him, face illuminated by the soft glow of his phone. The image ate away at his heart. _You should be here right now,_ he wanted to say. _Get rid of the middle man. We’ll talk for hours, just lying here. I want you, all to myself._

He said none of this.

They texted till dawn started to creep through windows and into the cracks of his curtains. He looked down at Patches’ small figure, sleeping soundly in the faint blue wash. **i think it’s time for us to get up,** he texted.

**You’re right.**

Clay let it hang in the air for a moment. He started typing. _I wish we didn’t have to. I wish we could stay like this forever._ His breath trembled as he slowly deletes it from existence.

Another text came through. **I’ll see you later.**

**you will?**

**I want to.**

“What?” He ran a hand through his hair in a meek attempt to quell the surge of adrenaline that coursed angrily through his veins. “What the fuck?” His heart raced as he tried to come up with something to say.

George beat him to it. **Plus, you have detention later for being late yesterday too, right?**

“Holy fuck, I forgot about that,” he muttered out loud. He swallowed the implications of George’s previous text down thickly, but it stoppered in his throat, descending like a pile of bricks on his ribs. **yeah, yeah. i almost forgot about that.**

**Well, you’re welcome for the reminder. I’ll see you later, Clay.**

He could feel his face flush. He decided to leave the text thread there, and get out of bed. The strange and unfamiliar intimacy of their interaction left a pool of confusion and shameful lust in the crease of his bed where he lay.

He was reminded of his confession. _He’s the first thing I’ve felt in ages._ Did George feel the same? Was he lying in bed, stupid grin on his face, as the world melted away into a haze of longing and pining for something he’d never known?

He burrowed his head in his hands. _Do you want me, George? Do you want me like I want you?_

Clay wandered through the day in a sleepless haze. He didn’t have to explain to Sapnap why he kept drifting off in the back of Algebra, or why his thoughts were so distant. He just helped him in quiet concern, and Clay was forever grateful.

He hadn’t seen George all morning. He wasn’t looking, but George always seemed to come to him when he least expected it. For a second he debated whether George was real- was he just a fever dream, a figment of Clay’s overactive imagination? Was Clay so lonely that he had just completely made him up to feel something, anything?

Around a table, he sat with voices attached to bodies he had only a vague memory of. Sapnap laughed along with their jokes, and Clay tried to keep up with their conversation about some party that one of the footballers were hosting the night after the next.

“It’ll be fucking crazy, dude,” Someone said, his face lit up. “My parents are going away, and they didn’t say I couldn’t throw a party so,” he punctuated his sentence with a nonchalant shrug, and the rest of the boys laughed along with him.

Clay heard his name called, and Sapnap pulled him back to reality. “Clay! You’ll be there, right?” A hand clapped him hard on the back, shaking him out of his distracted reverie. “Drunk Clay is my fucking favourite, man.”

He felt like he owed them a small grin. “Of course I’ll be there,” he lied through his teeth. “Not like I have anything else to do.”

Drunk Clay was somebody else completely. Loose-lipped, loud, vulnerable Clay. He couldn’t count on both hands how many times he’d woken up in people’s bathrooms after throwing his guts up after countless beers. He shuddered at the thought of how violently sick he used to get. He didn’t like getting drunk now, not anymore, not since he found out closing himself off to all friends and family and letting his emotions rot away in the storage closet behind his ribcage made for a much better method of therapy.

But the thought of letting loose for one night, for the first time since he started to open his heart again- it couldn’t hurt to spend some time with his friends, right? He looked up at Sapnap, who was throwing his head back in manic laughter, and smiled smally. He missed how much he used to laugh with his best friend.

His phone buzzed in his hand. **I just saw a really fat pigeon.**

The smile grew on his face, reigning in the swell of his heart that George was texting him about random nothings throughout his day. **how fat? are we talking melted pool of feathers?**

**Hell yeah. It kinda looks like a boat from here.**

He let out the smallest chuckle. He imagined George, books in hand, snapping pictures of a random bird in the carpark, paying no mind to who was watching him watching a bird. **that’s cute.**

**You’re cuter.**

His breath hitched in his throat, his heart stopping for a flicker of a second. _What are you doing to me, George?_ He swallowed thickly, struck dumb trying to think of a response.

**you’re cruel.**

**Why?**

Now he was just egging him on. He could practically see the casual smile behind the screen, completely oblivious to Clay’s blushing face and the mental count in his head he needed to steady his breathing. The bell trilled, cutting through his thoughts and into the clumsy drawing back of chairs around the table as everyone stood up.

George was out to kill. He was bloodthirsty, teeth poised at the unmarred column of Clay’s neck, waiting, just waiting for the right moment to descend. The axe would swing and the swords unsheathe and he was powerless against the torrent of George’s intention.

He had half a mind to pay a visit to the bathroom and relieve the tightness in his jeans, but Sapnap threaded an arm around his shoulders in cozy camaraderie, dragging his heavy feet to his next class.

The rest of the school day was a watery mirage he droned through. He got his Calculus test back, a B+ scribbled in red. Sapnap leaned over and scoffed, muttering something about how “you never even do work on your own” and “how dare you do better than me?”

His feet carried him to the detention room, shuffling to the distant melody of the trilling bell. He was nervous to see George again, a single rogue butterfly let loose in his hollow chest. He stood silent at the doorway, and his gaze landed on the smaller boy sitting in the front row of desks, same periwinkle cardigan pulled up over his shoulders.

He spoke first. “Hey.”

George turned around, and smiled. Clay’s heart stopped in its tracks. “Hi.”

He set his pencil down on the table, patting the seat next to him. Clay’s feet moved before his brain did, clambering into the seat next to George. Their arms brushed together, sparking a buzz electric and lively.

“How was your morning?” His voice was low, only for the two of them to hear. He had picked up his pencil again, sketching a familiar silhouette.

“It was fine,” Clay couldn’t stop looking at his ivory fingers, carved nimble and agile. “I think I sleepwalked through the whole day.”

George giggled softly, eyes trained on his sketch. “Well, I’m sorry I kept you up.”

_You have no idea._ “You too.” His fingers itched to touch George’s, feel the marble skin with his own calloused fingertips. “It’s okay. I liked talking to you.”

The other boy looked up. Clay could see the small stubble that lined his chin, his skin paper white and almost translucent. He imagined cradling the soft skin of his jaw, George melting into the palm of his hand.

“I liked talking to you too.”

The silence hung between them, the tantalising inch between their faces taunting them. Neither were courageous enough to push forward, neither were smart enough to pull away. Clay opened his mouth to say something, anything-

“Two of you here for detention?”

They’re jostled out of their intimacy. Clay reeled back to look at the voice- Mr Thompson, his English Literature teacher, who liked to pretend he was more youthful than he really was. George spoke up first. “Yeah.”

Mr Thompson looked down at the list in his hands. “It looks like it’s just the two of you today. Tardiness means community hours, so you’ll be in the library, shelving.”

Clay didn’t mind this. They picked up their bags and followed after the man, walking side-by-side. He pretended not to notice how their free hands dangled together, brushing against one another. He willed George to do something, take hold of his hand, intertwine their fingers, pull Clay towards him- his heart yearned with the weight of his confession.

Two carts of unshelved books stood before them, chock-full of messy fingerprints on hardcovers and the common disregard for communal spaces. “I suggest you two split up the work,” Mr Thompson stood a ways aside. Clay could hear the nonchalance in his voice. “Once you’re done, you can go. I won’t be here to check, so I trust your own integrity will keep you here.”

The two boys nodded, and Mr Thompson left. Clay could almost catch the, “I’m not paid enough for this,” that he muttered, and by the sound of George’s chuckle, he did too. They put their bags down, and silently got to work.

Clay busied himself with the first cart, picking up a pile before disappearing behind shelves. His fingers trembled. If Mr Thompson hadn’t walked in, what would he have said? Would he have thrown sense out the window, blanketed them in pulsing quiet and closed the space between their mouths? Would _George?_ His fingers flared with numbing adrenaline as he shelved some Hobbit book, and an anthology of Greek myths.

He took a quiet look at the heavy book, bound in leather worn by years of use. Curiosity brushed by him as he flipped open the book. _The Story of Achilles_ lay in front of him in big, bold words.

_“The exact nature of the relationship between Achilles and Patroclus has been subject to years of dispute,”_ He read, skimming words and titles. His gaze caught on to, “ _Many considered it a model of deep and loyal friendship, while many modern interpretations have theorised a romantic, maybe sexual relationship between the two._ ”

He snapped the book shut, blinking back a pained expression. _I just got attacked by a fucking book_ , he thought. He scanned the shelves for the right place to put it back, and pushed it into place offensively, like it burned his fingertips to even touch it for any longer.

George’s eyes caught his through the cracks of the shelves. Molten pools of lava seemed to spark, even in the dingy, dimly-lit corner of the desolate library.

“Hi again.”

Clay smiled first. “Hey.”

“What were you reading?”

They spoke in low voices, separated by old books and miles worth of shelves. “Just some Greek myth.”

He could see George’s eyes light up. “I love Greek mythology.” Clay hummed, letting George continue. “I used to read _Percy Jackson_ as a kid.”

“No way. So did I.” Clay’s fingers clamped around his stack of books a little tighter, remembering just a sliver of his childhood. He wondered if he’d ever have to share that much of himself to George.

George’s smile grew impossibly bigger. “Yeah. But of course, that only deals with the classic myths, like Zeus and Poseidon. I wanted to know more, so I picked up a couple of books. Which one were you reading about?”

_The gay one and his gay best friend._ “Achilles, I think.” He cleared his throat to distract from his wavering voice, and looked back down at his pile of books. “Maybe we should continue with the books.”

He turned around, starting to shelf more books. His heart sank a bit as he caught George in his peripherals, but he didn't seem to notice Clay trying to avoid the way his gaze pierced and pinned him back to the shelves.

Hours burned by, punctuated every so often when Clay caught George in his eyeline, staring down at whatever book he was reading, or watching as a little corner of his sweater rode up when he reached for the top shelf. He felt himself drown in the sliver of skin, but as fast it came it disappeared.

The sky begun to darken around 4, but not before the dying sun crept through the slats of the library windows, painting everything with a golden glow. He watched George, shamelessly, as he waded into pools of melted sunlight.

Clay’s heart clenched just looking at him. He, the object of his affection, the cause of his destruction. He held out his hands and in it lay Clay’s heart, weakened, bloodied. _George, you’re ruining me._ He imagines soft caresses at the break of dawn, watching as the sun rose and bathed George in gorgeous golden. In the tranquility of his bed, he would pull him in by the waist, just close enough before their lips met.

“Clay?”

George’s soft voice broke through the waters of his reverie. They were done; both carts emptied and books back in their places, shackles undone and ready for them to leave. He looked down at him. “Yeah?”

“I was just asking you if you wanted to go now.”

Clay allowed himself a small glance upward; the clock read, _4:32._ “Yeah, yeah of course. Are you walking?”

He laughed. “In this weather? Fuck no.” He held up a set of keys, jingling madly intertwined in his fingers. “I’m driving home.”

“Oh.”

A moment of silence passed between them. Then, a tentative voice. “Do you want me to drive you home?”

_You look so fucking stupid right now._ “Uh- I don’t want to trouble you, it’s okay.” He tucked his thumb under his knapsack, hitching it further up his shoulder. “It’s not that long of a walk.”

“Nonsense.” George grabbed his hand, soft, slender fingers slipping through the crevice between his own. “I’ll drive you. I can’t make you walk in the dark.”

Clay’s feet dragged him through the school hallways, littered with students loitering around after their extra-curriculars. His heart blushed and his face flushed red, but no one seemed to look at him, or George, or the way Clay cautiously wrapped his fingers around George’s, feeling the soft skin over sharp knuckle.

Pushing open the doors, they found snow slipping through cracks of trees, swirling and raining down on them. The smaller boy pulled Clay forward, and Clay went. Wherever George took him, he would go, running through hills and valleys and up avenues of the unknown.

George’s hands were warm in his freezing ones, thawing out slowly in the gentle embers of his fingertips. They reached his car, a small silver Ford that looked like it had been passed down generation to generation only to break apart under George’s hands. He paid no mind- it was better than walking.

“Get in,” George ushered, yanking open the car door for him. The interior was clean, cleaner than he expected, with the usual, drab black leather seats. It smelt like distinctly like pinecone air freshener, which hung from his rear-view mirror, a small dangling tree swaying as George slid into the driver’s seat.

“It’s not the nicest ride,” He breathed. “But it does the job.”

“Yeah,” Clay agreed. He didn’t have his own car, but the days he did get to drive his mother’s car, he was just glad to be behind the wheel. “It’s nice. Quaint.”

George huffed. “That’s just code for boring, isn’t it?”

“No!” Clay laughed, setting his bag down in front of him. “I mean it. It’s nice.”

The other hummed in response, plugging his keys into the ignition, and the car rumbled to life. Yellow fluorescents spilled into the road in front of them, and George pulled out of the carpark. Clay sat still in his seat, not daring to touch anything, not daring to relax.

“You can just direct me to your house,” George said, before glancing over at him. “You alright?”

Clay looked back at him, his pale face illuminated by the gentle orange glow of the street lamps, and the harsh green as the traffic lights turned to ‘Go’. “Of course.” His heart captivated, he studied the planes and angles of the other’s face, turning his focus back to the road.

Easy silence filled the car. “I can feel you watching me.”

“I know.”

“Why are you watching me?”

Clay breathed. “Because you’re pretty.”

He surprised himself with the shamelessness of his reply, but he vowed to do it over and again as he watched how the other boy took it. George didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. It could have been the red glow of the traffic light, but Clay could have sworn his cheeks flushed red. His breath was trembling as he relaxed into his chair, and watched as George blinked rapidly, breath catching slightly in his throat.

He couldn’t help the swell of pride that washed over him. The streets passed them by, too fast to say hello. Over the low hum of the car, he caught George asking, “Where do I turn?”

Clay leaned out of his chair to survey the neighbourhood. “Just go straight for a little while longer, and then after the bus stop, turn left.”

The car slowed to a stop, and George’s hand left the steering wheel, laying it on the gear shift. Clay eyed it subtly, heart hammering in his chest as he thought. He wanted to feel that warmth again, like a small flame licking the air, glowing and growing in the hearth below his ribcage. _Fuck it,_ he thought, throwing caution to the wolves. He had already showed a little of the risky side of him. He dared not look down as he moved his clammy hand to softly encompass George’s, carefully, testing the waters.

George noticed. He looked down sharply at Clay’s hand over his own, lips parted as if to say something. Then, something snapped. He relaxed, letting go of the gear shift, taking Clay’s hand in his own.

Their veins intertwined under their skin, jolting electricity running up the nerve endings of Clay’s elbow. _I’ve never felt something like this. Like you,_ he thought. Small, pale and soft, against rough, tan and calloused skin. They stayed in comfortable quiet the whole drive, neither acknowledging their connection, but neither pulling away.

The streets turned familiar as George drove further into the evening. The same streets that were desolate when he was in Sapnap’s car seemed to come to life now, with amber lights glowing across yards and behind closed curtains.

“This is me,” Clay murmured. Their hands broke loose as he picked up his knapsack. “Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem,” George smiled. “I’ll see you around?”

Both of their mouths were painted shut about their hands intertwined for the last twenty minutes. Inside, Clay’s mind was on fire. “Of course.” He turned to unlatch the door, before something came to him. “Actually, I wanted to ask you.” He turned back to look at George. “My friends and I are having a party the day after tomorrow, and I was wondering if you’d wanna come.”

A look of distasteful concern crossed George’s face. Clay’s heart stammered. _Fuck. Was that too far?_

“Thanks for the offer, Clay,” he began tentatively. “I don’t really go to parties, but… I’ll think about it.”

“You don’t have to!” Clay rushed. “I’m sorry I asked. I just-“

He’s cut off by a small laugh. “Don’t be sorry. I’ll think about it, okay?” He lay his hand over Clay’s again, almost like a reassurance. “Text me the address.”

Nervousness stroked the fire in his chest. “Okay,” he managed, before sliding out of the car. “Get home safe.”

“I will.”

He turned, shut the door, and watched as George pulled out of his neighbourhood. He stood frozen in his spot in the middle of the road, mentally cursing himself. _You stupid- Why would you ask him that?_

“I couldn’t have known,” he tried to justify himself. “It was nothing more than a harmless question.”

But the tingling numbness of his fingertips stayed as he trekked back to his house, never faltering even hours later in bed, electrified by George’s tender fingers on his own, the soft pink blush that only he saw. _Only for me to see,_ he thought selfishly.

He reached up, up to the ceiling, imagining George in melted pools next to him, sharing his warmth under the soft blanket. He turned to his side, eyes closed, stroking an imaginary George and his imaginary cheek. _Only for me to see._

“Only for you to see,” George would agree, and smile in that way only he can, when his eyes turn to crescents. He would lounge in the space next to Clay, stretching his legs against Clay’s, touching him everywhere.

Clay reached for him, but only found the cold canvas of his empty bed. He didn't dare open his eyes, relishing in the memory of a feeling, and his heart craved for more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmmm the inherent homoeroticism of holding hands ψ(｀∇´)ψ ok let's pretend i didn't just write 5000 words of pure pining and sexual tension :3 as always, comments and criticism are welcome! let me know if you liked this chapter hehe
> 
> love you guys! thank you all for the support so far.
> 
> agora
> 
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	5. pineapple juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _He looked on in defeated admiration. His head wrapped around nothingness, sense seeming to disappear into the void as he reached for it. He wanted so many things; to touch and to hold him, to whisper nothings in his ear, to fall asleep with their chests burning together._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hewwo everyone i'm back! ok to be honest i'm not the biggest fan of this chapter. it's something way out of my writing comfort zone; but nonetheless it's pivotal to clay and george's journey and i hope you guys love it as much as the other chapters. it's a bit of a long one so grab some water n enjoy!

He woke up first. 

Sunlight strayed into his room, trailing golden in its wake. George lay, still and peaceful by his side, his comforter tucked up just under his chin. The sun backlit his figure, outlining him in a soft yellow glow. Clay looked, and looked, and couldn’t look away.

A small breeze trickled into the room, a chill biting at Clay’s bare skin. He sat up, the comfortable warmth of his duvet falling away. Leaning back against the headboard, he looked around. This wasn’t his room. It was bigger, more open, clothes that weren’t his strewn across the backs of chairs he’d never sat in. 

The familiar dullness of anxiety kicked in, buzzing in his chest. He looked back down at George, his soft hair a mess on the pillows. A tentative hand reached out slowly, ever so carefully, brushing stray hairs off his forehead. His skin was warm under his touch, and he began to stir.

“Are you…” Clay’s voice trailed off into a whisper. “When did you get here?”

George breathed in deeply, his legs rubbing against Clay’s as he stretched. “Hey,” he greeted, his voice small and hoarse. “Good morning.”

Clay opened his mouth to say something, but his gaze caught a clock sitting on the drawer next to George. He squinted, trying to read the time, but the numbers swirled into nonsense, the hands ticked backwards. It dawned on him.

“This is a dream.”

George looked up at him, almost like he was studying him. “It’s whatever you want it to be.” It sounded like a confession, like a weight of his chest. 

He looked back down at George, breath trembling. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, stay, Clay.” His hand comes up to cradle Clay’s cheek. He melted into the warmth of his hand, relishing in the tender strokes of his fingers. “Anything is only as real as you let it be.”

“I-“ he closed his eyes. He wanted to stay, wanted to crawl back into bed and lie on his side, watching George in this godlike corner of his subconscious. He wanted to let himself submit into his touches, pull him in, hold him. “I can’t stay forever, George,” He whispered, almost pained.

George said nothing. Rather, his fingers stroked Clay’s cheek, nerves coming alive under his tingling touches. “I know.” He said. “But five more minutes won’t hurt, will it?” 

He felt the bed dip, covers shifting. Clay opened his eyes again to find George sitting up with him. The comforter had fallen away, revealing the soft sculpture of George’s bare skin bathed in earthly glow. He moved closer to the other boy, faces just inches apart. Their breath tangled together, eyes never shying away from one another.

George spoke first. “I was waiting for you to do it, you know. In the detention room,” he laughed airily. Clay’s heart panged, blood rushing loudly in his ears. “I kept saying in my head, ‘Do it, Clay, do it. What are you so afraid of?’” 

George’s palm was fire against Clay’s skin, but he didn’t flinch. It melted him in the best way possible, reducing him to nothing but blood and desire. “You,” Clay confessed. “I’m so afraid of you.”

His hand retracted. The world sprung back to reality, back in the dreamland he had woken up to. George’s face was frozen. “What?”

Clay reached for his hand, palm encircling the thin wrist. “I’m afraid of how you make me feel, George.” He placed George’s open palm against his sternum. “Do you feel it? Do you see how you affect me?”

His heart beat irregular, racing under the hum of George’s palm. “I never knew,” his voice was small, just for the two of them to hear. “I’m sorry.”

Clay was aghast, hand falling to the duvet. “No, no. Don’t say sorry. It’s not something to say sorry for. I just never-“ he stopped as George’s fingers splayed against his chest began to climb, stroking the expanse of his collarbones. “I never knew I could feel this way.”

“And it scares you,” George finished, eyes trained on his hand against Clay’s skin. The contact alone fired up his nerves, synapses jumping and frying. He shifted, ever so slightly, letting their foreheads come together. “Does this scare you, Clay?”

Clay’s eyelids fluttered shut, breath trembling as George started to rake his nails gently against his skin. He felt like he was burning, bursting at the seams, drowning from too much yet not enough, never enough. “What are you doing to me?”

“My mother always taught me,” George said, hand coming to rest on Clay’s clenched jaw. “If you want something, do whatever you can to get it.” His eyes flickered up, meeting Clay’s. “If you want something, take it.” 

Their lips brushed together too clumsily to be an accident. Clay’s hands fell to George’s hips. “Will you let me take it, George?”

George let his lips answer for him, pulling Clay into him by the neck. They fell into each other, moving in electrifying unison, their mouths arching with fervency Clay never had before. _Finally, finally, finally,_ he thought, feeling George melt at the hips where his hands gripped. His mind swirled, thoughts amiss, clouded with a haze of pleasure.

He pulled George up on top of him, their knees bumping together. They laughed between heated kisses, reconnecting almost immediately, chasing the glittering gold of each other’s lips. George sat on his lap, arms snaking behind his neck. He pushed further, and Clay let him. He opened, heart left vulnerable for George to devour. 

George pulled away first. “Are you still afraid of me?”

Clay was breathless, his finger curling into a bruising grip on George’s waist. “No.” 

“Good.” George smiled. “Then come find me, Clay. Find me, and have me.”

Clay woke up to miles of empty canvas next to him, and cried.

* * *

Clay wondered if George’s dream was like that too. 

He shut his eyes tight, condemning every tear that dared to leak out. Why was he crying? His heart panged, a steady ache of longing thrumming somewhere in the recesses of his sternum. He was alone, he’d been alone all his life. Why was he so drawn to George? He reached up, up, grasping the last kindles of that shimmering dreamland, barely missing them as they dissipated into the hollowness of his dark room.

_Fuck,_ he thought. _Fuck this, fuck him, fuck everything._ Emptiness carved out the pit of his stomach, and as he lay on his back staring into the boundless ceiling, he longed to go back, into golden glow, into bed next to George.

_Find me,_ he remembered, _and have me._

His hands were cold. He got up, shrugging off the blanketing coat of desire that consumed him whole, and left for school.

* * *

Sapnap dragged him to the pregame before the party.

He’d more than sobered up since the day before, the dream the furthest thing from his mind as he was greeted by dozens of the football players. After the tenth hug-handshake combo, he was ready to sit in a corner of the room and eavesdrop in on a conversation he was part of.

It wasn’t that he hated parties. In fact, he used to love them. He used to be the life of the party, the MVP, the one who would walk in and everybody would cheer, lifting their disgusting red solo cups filled with piss coloured beer. He lived for pumping bass lines so loud the ground would shake, nudging through throngs of people holding some random girl’s hand and pulling them into the closest room for privacy.

But things were different now.

Time passed quickly as everyone set things up, ripping up cartons to unveil rows of beer cans, and Sapnap yelling about some keg lying uselessly on the floor. Clay had, at some point, had a red solo cup pushed into his hand, filled almost to the brim with beer. His rebuttals were shushed with a “Just take it, loosen up a little!”

“There’s so many fucking people,” he remarked to Sapnap, whose head was violently bopping along to whatever song was blasting from the speakers. “I don’t think I’ve seen this many people in my life.”

“That’s because you haven’t been out in years, Clay!” He yelled over the music. “I’m gonna go get more beer. You want anything?”

“No! Don’t fucking leave me alone, please!” Clay laughed. “I’m drowning in body sweat.”

“Too bad pussy!” he said before disappearing in the sea of people, some still trickling in from the doors blown wide open. Clay huffed, squeezing himself further into the corner that he had claimed his own.

He watched the door periodically, looking over the innocent freshmen and sophomores as they chatted excitedly amongst themselves about finally being invited to a senior party. He glared at the almost-full cup of beer in his left hand. Pushing it into some random kid’s hand, he yelled, “Drink this!” They stared back at him, before bringing the cup up to their lips and tipping the contents in.

“Gross,” he muttered, pushing past piss-drunk little freshies. The house was packed from corner to corner, not even a foot of free air for him to escape into. He swam through dancing bodies, loud noises encircling him. It was almost too overwhelming, but he finally made it to the kitchen. Not empty, not private, but at least had some space for him to breathe.

“Clay! Holy fuck dude, I haven’t seen you at one of these in forever long.” A clap landed, hard on his back. He rolled his eyes at the voice.

“Hey, Simon,” he tried to match his energy, clapping their hands together and giving him a noncommittal hug. “Yeah man, I didn’t even think I’d make it to this one.”

“It’s such a pity,” Simon laughed. “You really brought so much life to the parties. Remember that time you got so blackout drunk, you convinced everyone to run down to the beach butt fucking naked?” He chortled, and Clay caught himself smiling.

“That was fucking crazy,” he admitted. “We almost got tased.”

“You and me both! That’s right,” Simon’s hand landed on his shoulder, almost reassuringly. “Well, it’s good to have you back here. Have fun.” He blew a playful kiss and winked before joining back the pulsating crowd.

He sighed, yanking open the fridge door. “Ooh, a coke.” Pouring it into a clean solo cup, he sipped at it, watching as people laughed, yelled, danced their little hearts out. He smiled. Maybe it was good to be back.

The open doors brought in the occasional winter draft, and the more often-occuring party goer. He glanced at the door, and almost choked on his drink.

_Holy fuck._ He sat his cup down, crossing the threshold from the safety of the kitchen to the living room. He elbowed past drunkard after drunkard, ignoring cries of annoyance and insults hurled his way.

George stood awkwardly at the entrance of the house, wrapped nicely in a periwinkle blue scarf, and of course his cardigan falling off his shoulders. Clay could see his worried glances around. He pushed past the last enthusiastic freshman, and landed right in front of George.

_Find me, and have me._

“Clay,” George was breathless, his gaze catching the other boy’s, softening from its distraught.

  
“George.” His hands suddenly felt rock solid, anchoring on either side. “You came.”

“Of course I did,” his smile was soft, gentle, such a jarring juxtaposition from everyone else here. “I wanted to see you.”

“You didn’t have to drag yourself to a party. You could’ve texted me.”

“Well, I’m here now.” He lifted his arms in emphasis. “I’ve never been to a party in this town.”

Clay smiled, his heart thawing as George held it, open and vulnerable. “You’re not missing much. Come on, let’s get you a drink.” He pushed past thoughts of hesitation, grabbing George’s thin wrist and leading him to the kitchen. They snaked through the pulsating life of the party, avoiding flailing arms and spilling drinks.

The fluorescent kitchen lights were bright against the dim LEDs in the rest of the house, the aura of safety so much more prevalent as they crossed from one to the other. “I shouldn’t have worn this scarf,” George muttered, beginning to unwrap it from around his neck. “I don’t even have anywhere to put it.”

“You can give it to me,” Clay outstretched his arm, motioning for George to hand it over. “I think I left it in my bag here.” The wool was soft in his hand. It reminded him of the old scarves his mom used to make him wear in the winters. He stepped back slightly, yanking open the duffel he’d brought and stuffing it in. “There. Safe.”

“Thanks.” He shuffled his feet slightly. “Whose party is this?”

Clay picked up his cup, taking another small sip of refreshingly non-alcoholic coke. “One of the football players. His name’s Sam, I think.”

“What drink is that?”

“It’s coke.” Clay pushed it in his direction. “Do you want some? Or I could get you some beer, or wine coolers, I honestly have no idea what we have here…” He crossed over to the cooler box, digging through swarms of drinks and melted ice.

“I’ll have a beer.” George looked around at the lively conversations, the laughter from the party. Clay cracked open the beer can, pushing it into George’s hands. He whispered a “Thank you,” and took a long sip.

“Fuck,” he giggled. “I haven’t had a drink in a while.”

“You can’t even call that a drink,” Clay felt his shoulders loosen for the first time. “It’s absolutely vile.”

George laughed. Clay could feel his chest tighten at the sound, watching as he hid a smile behind his cup. A sliver of guilt made home within his sternum, reminding him of his dream. George’s feather-light touches skimming his chest, the wonderful weight of him in Clay’s lap, the gentle heat of their lips connected.

He was shaken out of his stupor by a clamorous yell coming from the party. Both of them took a sharp look to the left, where Sapnap was hollering at the top of his lungs. “Clay! I’ve been looking all over for you,” he said, settling a friendly hand on his back. “Who’s this?”

Clay and George met eyes at the same time. _Oh fuck,_ he thought. “Sapnap, this is George. George, Sapnap.” George smiled, crescent eyes and all, at Sapnap, who outstretched his hand for a handshake.

“I’ve seen you around school,” he says, taking a sip from his drink. “Did Clay invite you?”

“Yeah, I did,” Clay watched George sway his can in his fingers, fluid and nimble.

“Awesome.” He gave Clay a subtle look, one that said, _We’re gonna have a talk later._ “George, make this sad pathetic excuse for a man drink some alcohol, please,” his voice turned to a fake plead. “You’d love him drunk.”

Clay laughed. “No, I’m sure you won’t. Plus,” he held up his coke. “I’m perfectly content with this.”

“Lame!” He yelled in Clay’s face. “I’m going back to the party, where the cool people are.” Without another word, he snaked through bodies and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Clay and George alone again.

“He’s… something,” George tipped his head in the direction Sapnap just left.

“Yeah.” The world buzzed around them, just low enough that they can talk without raising their voices. “We’ve been friends for years.”

“I can tell.” Silence. “I can also tell he cares a lot about you.”

Clay huffed. “There isn’t much to care about.”

“You know that isn’t true.” He took another long drink from his can, a small dribble trailing down his sculpted jaw, trickling past his collarbones. Clay's groin tightened slightly, only brought out of it when George asked, “Can I have another?”

Clay reached behind him for the cooler box, fishing another can out. “I didn’t know you drank so much.”

Their fingers brushed gloriously against one another as George took it from his hand. “I don’t.”

The silence was pregnant with question, but Clay decided to let it go. The blasting music got to him, calling out his name. “Do you… wanna go dance?” He asked tentatively. He didn’t want to cross a line by asking too much; he’d known by George’s initial reaction to his invitation that it’d taken him a lot to even show up. “We don’t have to-.”

“No, no, I’d love to,” George turned, looking at the ravenous crowd, and smiled softly, privately. “Looks kinda daunting, though.”

“Once you’re in the thick of it, it’s not so bad,” Clay reassured, tossing him an awkward smile. “Come on, bring your can with you.” He held out his hand, and George took it, wrapping his slender fingers between Clay’s own. He tried to ignore the electrifying touch under his skin, and led George out into the crowd. He squeezed George’s hand, a small gesture asking _Is this okay?_ George squeezed back.

Clay elbowed through bodies, landing them in the middle of everything. He was so blisteringly aware of George’s palm against his, velvet fingers laced together, but nobody else was. Everybody else was moving, hollering, laughing, never minding the two boys in the middle watching each other with renowned admiration. It was so public that it was private, and Clay’s inhibitions withered with every second they stayed together.

He could just about recognise the song blasting on the speakers, and George started moving in tandem with everyone else, swaying his body, grip never loosening on Clay’s hand. Together they moved, danced, laughed in glittering secrecy.

Clay had forgotten how much he loved this. How much he loved being around people, in the public anonymity amongst the sea of bodies. Hours passed like minutes, shouting over the music and the passing around of drinks, it all seemed so familiar, yet so far away.

George had asked for more beer over time, his speech beginning to slur, and his movements languid. He’d pressed himself against Clay, breath hot as he danced, locking eyes with the taller boy. Clay, still painfully sober, swallowed away his anxieties, shrunk to a small buzz in the back of his head, and danced with him.

_Find me, Clay, and have me._

The party began to dissipate around 3, with people tripping out doors and into the fresh winter morning. They brought their laughter with them, until all that was left was the football team blacked out on couches. George and Sapnap leaned against the kitchen counters, George’s hand hovering slightly as he calculated whatever terminal velocity or linear angle he’d need to throw that pingpong ball to land in at least one of the cups.

He threw. It bounced right off the table.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed, the same time Sapnap cheered, picking up his own pingpong ball. “You’re gonna get owned, Georgie,” he snickered, and Clay smiled softly, chest glowing at the scene. His best friend and his… crush? No. What he felt for George was way more intense than just a _crush._ His Achilles' heel. His resurrection.

Sapnap’s ball landed squarely in the red solo cup, and George sank to his knees next to the counter. “This is so unfair,” he moaned.

“All is fair in love and war,” Sapnap slurred. “Now drink up!”

It’d been a long night of holding George up, watching as his smile turned dopey. He wanted to carry him home, cradle his head to his chest, make sure nothing disturbed him while he sweated blood and alcohol. “Isn’t that enough, George?” he had chided halfway through the night. George flipped him off, chugging his umpteenth can of the night, cheered on by bystanders and Sapnap’s loud hollers.

Sapnap barrelled towards him now, blabbering on about how he’d just destroyed ‘his new friend’ at beer pong. “Anyway!” he rasied his hand, a half full cup sloshing around. “You have to try this. Karl made it, and it’s got like pineapple juice and something something in it and it’s so fucking good.”

The drink was pushed into his hand. Clay argued, “Sap, I’m your designated driv-“ The other boy cut him off with a, “Pussy, just try it!”, slapping his back. Clay grumbled before bringing the cup to his lips. It was nice; the alcohol was strong, but the sweetness of the juice balanced it out.

Sapnap hummed, patting Clay on the back. “Very good. Very very good. It’s nice, isn’t it?” Clay nodded, setting the cup back down on the counter.

“You happy now?”

“Very.” Sapnap grinned toothily. “Finish that. I’ll have Karl make me another.” He stumbled out of the kitchen, whistling a soft tune.

“Is it any good?” He heard, and turned to see George, still sitting on the floor, among empty red solo cups strewn across the linoleum.

“It is, actually.” He picked it up, taking another sip. “It doesn’t taste too bad.”

“Really? Does it taste like pineapple?”

“Yeah.” He knelt down to George’s level, cup in hand. “You wanna try?”

George looked at him for a second, his hazel eyes glazed over with how many beers and cupfuls of cheap booze he’d drunk. He hovered, just inches away from Clay’s face, his expression unreadable.

His eyes slipped down to Clay’s mouth for a split second. Clay could hear the hitching of his breath, and they locked gazes again.

The words were out of Clay’s mouth before he could stop them. His chest swelled with liquor and pineapple juice. “Try it.”

George pushed himself forward on to his knees, his lips colliding clumsily with Clay’s. Both their eyes fluttered shut, inhibition melting into the floor, their bodies swaying together as they kissed. It’s short, George’s warm mouth gentle against Clay’s, who had to reign in the frenetic hunger of his fervour. _Is this real?_ _Is this another fucking dream?_

They part with a heavy breath. George’s tongue poked out of his mouth, wetting his lips. “It does taste like pineapple,” he muttered.

Their laughs bubbled together, Clay’s ice-cold resolve thawing into pools of burning admiration for the boy in front of him. His mouth missed the curve of George’s own, some part of his kindled courage egging him on, to reconnect their lips, to taste the shitty beer and the sweet innocence of George’s tongue.

_Find me, and have me._

“Let’s get you home,” Clay whispered, trying to ignore the burning glow in his sternum that threatened to consume him. “I’ll drive you, okay?”

George moaned. “Too tired,” he whined, splaying his long, slender body on the floor. “Don’t wanna go.”

Clay chuckled. “You have to.”

“Then you’ll have to move me.”

He huffed, scooping one hand under his upper back and the other under his knees. George wasn’t tiny, but he was small enough that Clay didn’t have much of a problem picking him up. “You’re such a princess,” he muttered softly, full of stupid adoration. He felt like he could say anything. “You just wanted me to carry you, didn’t you?”

George giggled, and Clay’s heart ached sharply. He looked down at the boy in his arms, curling his body into Clay’s warmth. George stared up, doe eyes feigning innocence as they pierced through the green tinted windows of Clay’s soul. He reached a small, cautious hand to Clay’s jaw, a touch that sends a golden spark skittering under Clay’s skin.

“You got me,” He whispered.

_I got you,_ Clay’s mind echoed. He’d parked his mom’s car just around the corner from the house. Tracks from the party-goers melted the snow on the grass, so he carefully tread through the damp patches, shoes squelching in the freshly thawed mud.

“Here you go,” he said, gently letting George down. “Get in, and sit here. I’ll go get our stuff and we can leave.” George murmured something unintelligible, before sliding ungracefully into Clay’s passenger seat and closing the door.

He ran back in, drying his shoes quickly on the welcome mat before darting into the kitchen to pick up his duffel. “Clay?” He heard Sapnap call from behind him. “You going already?”

“I’m gonna go drop George off at his house,” he said, turning around to meet Sapnap. The house had gone almost quiet, only a small melody playing on the speakers. “I’ll come back to drive you, okay?”

“Don’t worry about it,” He said, leaning on the kitchen counter. He’d since sobered up slightly, a half-full bottle of water in his left hand. “I’m gonna crash here. Somebody’s gotta help Sam clear up in the morning.”

“You sure? I could totally just come back and pick you-“

“He’s what changed, isn’t he?” Sapnap cut him off. “He’s what happened. Why you called me that night.”

Clay was stunned to silence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I can see it, Clay. Don’t lie to me.” His tone wasn’t harsh, but it sounded like a scolding. “When will you admit it to yourself?”

His voice turned frenetic. “I have, I just-“ he choked on his words, mind wandering back to his dream. “I’m just afraid of how I feel.”

Sapnap said nothing. They stood, in pregnant silence, until Clay tucked his thumb under the strap of his duffel. “We’ll talk about this when you’re not drunk.” He said, pushing past his best friend, heading for the door.

He heard an agitated, “I’m not drunk!” before he crossed the threshold. He breathed deeply, the cold air stinging his lungs, and fought back the pinprick tears that sprung up behind his eyeballs. He wanted to yell, to scream into the navy blue void that hovered above him, taunting him. He closed his eyes. _What the fuck is wrong with me?_

He jogged back to the car, where George’s head had lulled to the side slightly, mouth parted. Maybe it was true. Maybe George had changed him, in ways everybody but him could see. He’d long since nestled George in a soft spot in his chest, right behind his sternum.

Yanking the back door open, he dropped his duffel on the ground before crossing around to sit in the driver’s seat. He looked over at the sleeping boy, almost akin to the figure that slumbered next to him in his subconscious. He placed a hand on his shoulder.

“George,” he whispered. “I need you to tell me your address.”

He stirred awake, mumbling a string of words Clay could just barely make out. He punched them into his phone's map, and it paved the way for him silently. He pulled out of his spot, spilt fluorescent lighting his way, and drove.

In the low hum of the car, he could hear George’s soft breathing. He touched a finger to his mouth, almost like there was a trace of George’s soft lips for him to wipe off. Stupid decisions fuelled by drunken stupor. He was stupid to have let it happen, so why did he still want more?

_Why did you kiss me?_ Had he egged him on too much? Should he have pulled away, pushed the offensive cup into his hand instead? He stepped on the pedal forcefully, the rev of the engine dissipating his anger like vapour.

He tapped his fingers on the dashboard as he waited for red to turn green. He cast a glance to his right, George bathed in a pinkish wash as he slept.

He looked on in defeated admiration. His head wrapped around nothingness, sense seeming to disappear into the void as he reached for it. What was this? What was going on? He wanted so many things; to touch and to hold him, to whisper nothings in his ear, to fall asleep with their chests burning together. He was at a loss.

When was the last time he felt like this?

The light turned green. He focused back on the road, and kept driving.

His phone tinkled softly to announce their arrival to George’s house. He looked out his window at a small house, driveway covered in snow, and a cozy little garden almost frozen over. He checked the address he’d gotten from George again.

The window next to the door glowed a homely orange, but Clay doubted anyone was awake at- his eyes darted to his dashboard clock- 04:24. He nudged George awake gently.

“We’re here,” he said in a low voice. “Come on, honey.” He bit his tongue. The pet name had slipped out before he could stop it, but George was too groggy to notice.

Clay crossed over to open his car door, helping George out slowly. He murmured a “Thank you,” as they hobbled slowly to his front door.

George blinked awake, a little more sober than he was back on Sam’s kitchen floor. “This is me,” He said softly, dazedly looking at the glowing window. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Of course.” Clay replied, helping him up the stairs to his door. “Goodnight George.”

“Goodnight Clay.”

He was about to turn around and leave when George caught hold of his sleeve. His voice was hesitant. “Do you want to come in?”

Clay’s throat tightened, searing hot. “I…” his head pounded. _Don’t do this to me, George. You don’t know what you’re doing to me._ His heart grasped for composure. “I don’t think I should.”

He was almost sure a look of hurt flashed across George’s face, but he hid it as fast as it came. “Oh.” Curt, sharp. “Alright.”

_Please don’t hate me._ “I’ll text you, okay?”

George didn’t answer. He turned, pushing his weight onto the door handle, and escaped.

_Don’t do this to me,_ Clay wanted to scream. _Come back. Don’t hate me._

He ran a hand through his hair, wishing he’d drunk more, drunk enough to forget the whole night even happened, drunk enough to forget the taste of George’s lips on his own. “Fuck,” he muttered, turning around and jogging down the steps.

His jaw clenched. He brought a cold hand to his throat, wrapping his fingers around the searing column. “Fuck!” he yelled, a torrent of burning pain tearing open his abdomen, unleashing the chill of cathartic emotion from his body.

He slumped against the door of his car, delirious and dizzy. _Look what you’re doing to me, George._ He closed his eyes, drawing together the memory of George’s mouth on his, sparking yellow and orange down his spine. _Why are you doing this to me?_ Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the orange glow of the window fade to black.

He yanked open his car door, got in, and drove home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> waaaaaa!!! thank you for reading my shitstorm. this chapter was one of the first chapters i had planned out when i started writing. i knew what i wanted to happen, but it still was so difficult for me to write. i hope you guys liked it and as always, comments and criticism are ALWAYS welcome. i'm so glad more of you are joining the little waterlily community! it's really so surreal to me people actually like my words hehe. 
> 
> anyway, thank you for your patience with this chapter. i'm trying to get one chapter out every week at least, but some weeks are harder than others. have a great rest and don't forget to drink water <3
> 
> agora
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/agowa_)   
>  [tumblr](https://meltiers.tumblr.com)


	6. the 27th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _Together, they sank, tied at the waist, letting the world burn around them. They lost themselves just to find one another, lips shivering, hands ablaze._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys. i think this is the first chapter that has really burnt me out. it took a lot of sleepless nights planning and writing this chapter. it's a lot of messy emotion and stream of consciousness and i hope that all in all it kinda makes sense. thank you all for your patience and love <3

**Good morning :)**

**Shit, my head is pounding. Did you get home alright last night?**

**Clay? Are you awake?**

**I barely remember anything.**

**Clay?**

His phone turned off with a miserable click.

The morning was still, unmoving. He didn’t get much sleep last night, haunted by the electrifying memory of George’s lips on his own.

Clay had gotten home around 5, after driving mindlessly through desolate streets and shadowed pavements, his mind clouded over with thoughts he couldn’t dare let out. His heart burned in his chest, shameful desire painting the walls of his sternum.

His shoulders ached. His heavy feet had dragged across the floorboards, carrying his gentle corpse to bed. He’d wanted so desperately to climb into bed, pull the covers over his head and forget, fall asleep into a mindless orbit that freed him from the stench of not knowing, never knowing.

But he didn’t. He watched the sun rise from his window.

If he fell asleep, would he wake up next to George again? His breath hitched, chills scuttling through his fingers at the thought. Would he open his eyes, find himself in that altered reality, that dreamland, that bedroom bathed in honey and the deepest desires of his beating heart? His heart ached so strongly it felt numb.

Did he want to wake up next to George?

_Find me, and have me._

He watched as the world began to wake up again, as azure painted the morning sky and the birds chirped their morning calls. Patches mewled at his feet, stretching as she rubbed herself awake.

Clay looked down at her. “Hey girl,” he murmured. His voice was hoarse, product of his lack of sleep and severe dehydration. “Good sleep?”

She seemed to purr in response, pushing her face against his palm. He felt her warmth, a meek solace from the biting chill, and relished in it. “I’ll get you some breakfast,” he smoothed his hand against her fur, scratching behind her ears.

The house was silent save from the gentle padding of Patches’ feet on the hard wood floors as she trailed behind him soundlessly, bumping her head periodically into Clay’s shins. He smiled gently, heart comforted ever so slightly.

As she feasted on her breakfast, he leaned back on the kitchen counter. The clamouring of his thoughts had failed to quieten down, each one fighting for the centre spot of his conscious mind. He closed his eyes, recalling again the gentle flicker of George’s eyes from his gaze down to his lips.

Clay licked his lips, almost like the pineapple stained his mouth with burning recollection. He teetered over the edge of the seconds later, not daring to take the dive head-first into the memory of their lips pressed together. He breathed in slowly, letting the gentle rush of tears fall as he waded into the pulling tides of his memory.

_“Try it,”_ he’d whispered, watching as George’s eyes glittered with curiosity, drunken confession spilling into his hands as he reached, bringing their lips together in a messy kiss.

George’s text burned a hold right in the center of his skull. **I barely remember anything.**

_You barely remember anything. I remember everything._

He remembered every tantalising second of the kiss, how George’s tongue tasted of cheap beer and graceless desire. He remembered carrying George in his arms, the way the LEDs carved shadows into his face, the cradling of George’s head into his chest. He remembered George’s hurt when he said no, he wouldn’t stay. He remembered the way his words seemed to cut into his drunken jubilance, the way he seemed to sober enough to let himself back into his house.

****

_I remember everything_.

He was brought back out of his reverie by bounding steps down the stairs. “Oh, there she is,” he heard. “I was looking for her.”

His sister appeared around the corner, popping into his line of sight. “You’re up early,” she commented, smiling. “What’s the occasion?”

He breathed out a laugh. “Nothing,” he looked at her, her hair pulled sharply into a bun, long sleeved pajamas miles too big for her hanging off her shoulders. “I just wanted to get Patches her breakfast.”

She hummed in response, picking Patches up gently. Patches mewled happily, purring contently in her arms. “How was the party last night?”

His heart panged at the thought. “It was alright.”

“You don’t seem hungover. Did you drink?”

“I don’t get-“ he reached to swat her arm, but she pulled away, giggling. “I didn’t drink much, no. I drove a couple of my friends home.”

“Right. Responsible designated driver.”

They stood in comfortable silence for a while, watching as Patches dozed off softly in her arms. “It’s the 27th,” she whispered.

“I know,” he replied. “Is she awake?”

His sister glanced sharply up the stairs. “I don’t think so. She went to sleep pretty late last night.”

“I’ll make breakfast.”

“You sure?” he could almost hear the sarcastic smile in her voice. “The last time you made it, it took me 20 minutes to get the burnt remains off the pan.”

He broke into a small smile. “I got it, this time. I promise. Now, go shower, and see if she’s awake.”

She nodded, letting Patches down gently back onto the ground, before she doubled back up the stairs. Back in the kitchen, Clay sighed into the empty vastness of the house. He left his inhibitions, his anxieties in the tidal pool of his room, and began to cook.

* * *

The snow was impossibly thick under their boots, crunching loudly as they paved their way through the streets. “I don’t really wanna take the car,” Clay’s mother had said just before. “Can we walk?”

Both him and his sister nodded, waiting fingers itching to do something, anything to console their mother. Her voice strained on every syllable, weighted by how hard she was holding back her tears. As Clay watched her put on her shoes with trembling hands, he felt the painful thick stoppering in his throat, hard to swallow.

Their walk was silent. Clay’s cheeks reddened in the chill, his breath vaporising into a cloud in front of him. Despite the cold, the sun glowed strong, wrapping each cotton cloud in a halo of thinly woven golden. He wanted to breathe it all in, the crisp morning air, the fresh winter dew. The pavements felt so different now, illuminated by sunlight rather than dismal orange from the streetlamps. The houses were alive, with chatter filling the neighbourhoods they passed, pleasantries filling the air that were normally eerily silent.

“Careful, Mom,” he murmured as they reached the cemetery gates. He helped her past the bars, taking her mittened hands into his and leading her slowly through the patch. He could hear her sniffles, and tried to pretend they were from the cold.

They stood, silently and contemplative, in front of the gravestone now. He felt his mother’s hand squeeze his tightly, before letting go and moving forward. He could tell by the hesitance in her steps how much pain she was pushing through right now.

Clay looked back at his sister, her eyes trained on their mother. Her eyes were red, swollen too, an unfamiliar break in her resolve she so often paraded. He reached for her hand, bleeding hearts finding comfort in one another.

A small bouquet of tulips and chrysanthemums were laid before the stone. His mother placed a cautious hand on top of the stone, kneeling in front of it. “Hello honey,” she began. Her voice broke, watery syllables falling to the ground. “It’s been a year.”

Clay cried his fair share of times in front of his father’s headstone. He’d found himself here, more often than not fuelled by enigmatic emotion and a blooming fondness in the grates of his heart. But here, surrounded by the people who shared his grief, he couldn’t seem to cry. His heart twisted sourly in his chest, and they stepped back, letting their mother have a moment alone.

“It’s beautiful in the morning,” his sister murmured to him. They looked into the sky, watching clouds roll lazily across the skyline. “I would come here more often but…” she trailed off, voice bubbling into a soft laugh. Clay joined in, feeling gentle mirth erupt from his frozen lungs.

“It is,” he agreed, breathlessly. “I think it’s the both of you that bring the beauty into this place.”

His sister smiled at him. For once, a genuine smile came easy to him.

“Do either of you want to say anything?” They turned to face their mother, looking past her swollen eyes and reddened nose. “I think- I think I’m done.”

“Of course,” he reached out to grab her hand, guiding her as she stepped cautiously through snow and frozen grass. He gestured for his sister to take a step forward, letting her talk first. She nodded gracefully, and turned to the stone.

“How are you feeling?” He asked his mother, squeezing her hand gently. “Did you sleep well last night?”

She shook her head. “Not really. I couldn’t sleep at all,” she admitted. “I was thinking about what I would say- to him.”

Clay nodded. He didn’t know what else to say. “It’s been a long time.”

“A year.”

“It’s felt longer than that, hasn’t it?”

His mother looked up, trying a crackling smile. “Yeah,” her voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s felt so long.”

He draped his arm around her shoulders, reeling her into a hug. She breathed unevenly, hiccupping sobs breaking through her shoulders. He hushed her, running his hand gently down her back. “It’s okay, Mom,” he murmured, feeling the familiar pinprick of tears behind his eyes. “It’s okay.”

He felt a tap on his shoulder and looked up at his sister, standing over him. “You can talk to him now,” She nudged him. “I’ll take her.”

What was he to say? He blinked back his tears, and swallowed the growing lump in his throat, staring straight at the stone. “Hey, Dad,” he said. It felt weird, now, knowing both his sister and mother could hear him. The last few times they’d done this, he never had anything to say.

He remembered the last time he was here, the searing ache in his chest as he ran down the pavements to hold what remained of his father by the shoulders, trying to make sense of what was right in the world. The tears, the sobs, the confession he’d made.

_He’s the first thing I’ve felt in ages._

He let his voice drop to a small whisper, conscious of his sister’s impeccable hearing. “I kissed him, yesterday,” he breathed. Saying it out loud almost made it feel real. The frustration he’d pushed so far out of his mind finally cozied up to him, warming his blood. “We kissed and I don’t think he remembers it, Dad.”

His laugh was hollow. “It meant everything to me and nothing to him. Can you imagine that?” He fiddled with the strings of his hoodie, basking in the shaking reality of his adoration. “I don’t even know what I’m going to say to him.”

He sat there in silence for a couple more minutes, breathing in steadily. All the times his feet brought him here, crying frustration and anger and confusion, he’d felt no place more familiar than the spot he sat in now, watching the tender trickle of snowfall as it made home atop his father’s gravestone.

When he was ready, he stood up. He didn’t want to leave, but he didn’t want his mother waiting anymore in the cruel cold. They all stood over the place his father rest, bidding their farewells until the next 27th. Their mother took them both by the hand, and smiled. “Both of you have been stronger than I ever imagined,” she started. “You’ve taken care of each other. You never let the grief get the best of you. You never let it harden the love you have for others.”

They could hear the waver in her voice as she said, “If your father was here, he would be so proud of you both.”

* * *

They left in higher spirits than when they had come, walking home just as the sun sat in its throne right in the middle of the sky. Clay trailed a little behind the two women, watching animatedly as they talked. He couldn’t help but smile to himself.

He’d shoved his hands rudely into his pockets, saving them from turning blue. He kicked around a pebble on the ground as he walked, immersed in the tidal pool of his thoughts.

“Clay!”

His eyebrows pinched at the voice so close yet miles away. Perhaps a part of his imagination, a recollection of a voice. He kept walking.

“God- Clay!”

Oh. _Oh._

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder, and tension shrouded at the touch. George’s voice permeated through his thoughts and broke through, pulling him squarely by the shoulder. “Clay, it’s me.”

“George,” he breathed, turning around. _You barely remember anything._ “Hey.”

George’s eyebrows furrowed together, a courteous look bordering on annoyed. “I saw you walking and I thought I’d-“ he blinked, sighing softly. “Are you ignoring my texts?”

_Yes._ “God, no,” he lied through his teeth. “I’ve just been- busy.” 

His mother and sister had stopped ahead, heads tilted quizzically at him. “Go on, I’ll catch up!” he hollered to them. He watched as they reluctantly picked up the pace again, trailing slowly out of sight. 

“Busy?” There was an undertone of ugliness in his voice. “You’re too busy to reply me? To just send a simple, ‘Good morning’?”

“Are you angry at me right now?” Clay asked, annoyance piquing in his voice. “I just said I was busy, and I couldn’t reply.”

“You read the messages though.”

_He’s right._ “I- I forgot to reply.”

George’s voice turned dangerously sharp. “You… forgot.”

_How am I supposed to tell you I didn’t sleep last night?_ “Yeah.” _That all I could think about was your kiss, your lips on mine, and you don’t remember a fucking thing?_ “I forgot.” _That’s a lie. I remember everything._

“Somehow you were too busy this morning to forget to reply a text you just read.” The venom in his voice began to creep into the crevices of Clay’s chest. “I just- I was worried,” Unsaid words hung in between them, but somehow, Clay could hear them so loud, _After you left me alone last night._ “I’m sorry that I even bothered in the first place.”

“I don’t understand why you’re so angry.”

“Because- because you’re so complicated! One minute you’re sweet, you’re teasing, you hold my hand and it feels like-“ His voice, flooded with fierce emotion, strained against the column of his neck as he tried valiantly for an even tone. “It feels right.”

Terrible desire bloomed in Clay’s stomach. He condemned his knees for swaying, weakness pulling the wind from his body. “George-“

“I’m not done!” George pressed on, angrily. “You can’t do that, Clay. You can’t ignore my texts after- after last night.”

His blood froze. Clay could feel his hands shake. “I thought you couldn’t remember anything.”

George laughed hollowly. “You’re idiotic.” His eyes flickered from Clay’s ceramic gaze, back down to his lips, back up to his eyes. “I was just afraid.”

”Afraid of what?” 

“Afraid of you,” George whispered.

_I’m so afraid of you,_ he remembered, the blue flame inside him roaring to life, burning true. _Do you feel it? Do you see how you affect me?_

He pushed away the thought of his bruising grip on George’s hips, the idyllic dreamland rising like bile in his throat. “Why are you afraid of me?”

“Because,” he breathed. “because I didn’t want to rush into things. I didn’t want to fuck things up. I said I forgot because I was hoping I didn’t- didn’t ruin everything by remembering.” The anger eased from his voice, turning timid. “When you didn’t answer, I thought you- I thought you hated me.”

”Why would I-“ Clay swallowed. _Oh._ “You thought I didn’t want to talk to you-“

”After the kiss,” George finished for him. “You didn’t want to come in. I thought I fucked up, I thought I ruined it with you.” 

His words singed at Clay’s fingertips, licking embers carving into the numbness. His mind was racing- anger at George, the solemnness of his father’s gravestone, the guilt- clamouring and climbing over one another. He carded a trembling hand through his hair, clenching his jaw.

_Fuck it._

“George,” he started. “Do you want to meet my father?” 

George stilled. The painted frustration of his face melted away into confusion. “What?”

_Yeah, what?_ “Do you want to meet my father?” he repeated, heart hammering in his chest.

“What for?”

“To explain why I was busy this morning.” 

George’s mouth hung slightly ajar. “Where are you going to take me?”

A smooth wash of dull anxiety crashed against Clay’s abdomen. _What the fuck are you doing?_ “Just trust me.”

He held out his hand. George looked down at it, a gesture of frayed intimacy, reminiscent of throbbing parties and soft green glow. He took it, carefully, as if it would crumble into dust at the first sign of attention, and laced his fingers in between Clay’s. They sighed together into the sunshine, and walked. 

  
Clay retraced his steps, walking the same path he’d just come from. They stayed in silence, an obvious strain in the atmosphere between the two of them. _What are you doing?_ He asked himself, over and over. _I don’t know,_ a part of him shot back.

He tried to relax his hand in George’s, but it sat, stiff, bludgeoning. He walked slowly, keeping George in the peripherals of his vision. He had on sweatpants and his cardigan, whipping behind him as he took large steps to keep up with Clay. The tip of his nose was red from the cold, the rosy blush a lovely background for the freckles littered across his face. Clay had half a mind to stop and take his cheek into his hand, cradling his jaw, trail his lips from his nose down to his chill-bitten lips.

“Why are we here?” George’s voice was low, saturated with confused apprehension, his grip on Clay’s hand tightening. They approached the rusted grey gates of the cemetery slowly, looking upon the patch of headstones.

“This way,” Clay ushered him, guiding him along the pathway he had just trekked with his mother and sister, their footprints in the ground already covered with a thin layer of white. “This is my father.”

They stood together, huddled shoulder to shoulder, looking on at the same headstone that Clay had cried over a thousand times, now the marbled grey glittering in the streams of sunlight. His sister was right- the cemetery was beautiful in the mornings, but he was right too- that the people he came with brought the beauty into the lifeless expanse.

“Your father…” George’s voice trailed off, edging with uncertainty.

“He died a year ago today,” Clay explained. He dipped, heaving himself onto the snowy ground. He held out his hand for George to follow, and he did. “We come here every 27th, talk to him a little, give him his favourite flowers,” He rolled a tulip petal in between the soft pads of his fingers.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Clay fixated his gaze on each letter engraved on the stone. “There’s no point in apologising.”

“I’m sorry I got angry at you.”

Surprised laughter bubbled through both of them. “Yeah,” Clay smiled dryly. “I deserved that one.”

They sat in silence for a while, just relishing in each other’s presence. George started slowly. “Why did you bring me here?”

He couldn’t look at George. He couldn’t to lose himself in his pools of amber, in the angular cheekbones, in the pale, milky skin. “Whenever I don’t know who to talk to, I come here. I talk to this patch of dirt more than I talk to anybody in my life.” He huffed out a laugh, dropping his head. “It’s not therapy. It doesn’t cure me. It doesn’t take away the pain, but,” he paused, words clogging in his throat as wounded pride fell from his lashes in tears. “It makes me feel like my father’s still here, sometimes.”

George stayed silent. His hand snaked around into Clay’s lap, where his hand lay limp, and intertwined their fingers together.

“I’m not good at emotions, George,” Clay confessed. “I’m really not. I’m the kind of person who would rather suffer eternally in silence than call for help. But I wasn’t always like that.”

“What were you like?”

“Happy,” he whispered. “I was such a happy child. My mom tells me all the time, and I can tell she misses that me, but she never admits it.”

The afternoon had brought with it gentle breeze, no longer biting chill and whipping winds. Tender wind ebbed away at Clay’s resolve, thawing along the melting sleet.

He was saying so much, too much. He’d never done this before, rip out the very essence of his person and bare it raw, naked for anyone to see. He’d always tried so hard never to let anyone see him vulnerable, because vulnerability was weakness, and Clay was not weak.

But George’s hand in his rejuvenated the nerves in his body, resurrected his grieving soul. He felt comfortable, he felt safe. _What an unfamiliar feeling_ , he thought.

“When my father died, it felt like the world ended,” he whispered, trying to even the cadence of his voice. “Everything changed, and nothing felt right, you know? Everything in the house just felt so foreign all of a sudden. I felt like it was haunting me, his pictures, his books.”

“I know the feeling,” George said softly, like a reminder, like he wasn’t letting Clay alone in his nightmare.

He was grateful for it. With a timid breath, he continued. “So I stopped. I didn’t go to school for a while, I dropped out of the football team. I felt like I needed to change everything- _everything,_ about me, just so I didn’t have to think about him anymore. I didn’t want to attach myself to anything, because what if,” his voice cracked. “What if the same thing happened?”

“So you shut everybody out.” George said hesitantly.

“Until you.”

A secret, hushed whispers behind kitchen counters and library shelves.

“You changed everything.”

A confession, a reckoning that yielded man to his knees.

“You make me feel like I have something to lose again.”

_And it’s worth it,_ he didn’t say.

They sat in silence, stewing in heated expectation and unspoken promise. He didn’t know whether to continue, or to stop, or to hold George in his hands and kiss him to an inch of his life.

George hummed. “Do you remember that day we were both late? When you walked to school and I caught up to you?”

Clay laughed at a memory that stretched beyond eons. “Of course I do.”

“I told you that I dreamt about you.”

_I remember everything._ “I remember that.”

“I dreamt that we were together.” He said quietly. “Back in my home in England. I haven’t been there in years, but I remember it like the back of my hand.”

Clay’s chest swelled with some kind of yearning. In his mind, he remembered his dreamland, easing itself into the forefront of his thoughts. “What was it like?”

“Surreal,” George’s voice pressed on shaky keys. “It felt so real, you know? Those dreams that when you wake up, it still feels, just for a little bit, like you’re still there?”

_You have no idea._ “Yeah,” he shifted slightly to face the other boy. “I know what that’s like.” _Take me back,_ he remembered thinking. _Take me back to him._

“What happened?” Clay asked, disguising his fidgeting excitement as curiosity.

“I laid next to you, watching the sun set,” George began, “The sun was- it wasn’t bright, but it was strong, you know? Like when the glow is so intense it fills the room even in places it doesn’t touch.” He sighed, running his thumb along the web of skin between Clay’s thumb and pointer finger. “There was a movie playing. I don’t remember what, but you were so engrossed in it.

“We fell asleep together,” he said. “Or rather, you fell asleep next to me. You looked so peaceful, so young when you slept. And then I-“ he stopped for a moment, tipping them into warm silence. “I kissed you.”

Clay felt like he was falling. “You dreamt we fell asleep together,” He said in muted passion. “I dreamt we woke up together.”

Seconds tumbled by them. Clay wondered how they got here; talking about dreams in the fluttering snowfall, sitting in front of his father’s gravestone. That first night in the gas station didn’t even feel real anymore.

George whispered, “I wanted it to be real.”

Together, they waded into foreign waters, pushing past tidal waves of caution and faraway fear. Hand-in-hand they fell, headfirst into the unfamiliarity of each other, into the heated desire to explore.

“Let it be real,” Clay whispered back.

Together, they sank, tied at the waist, letting the world burn around them. They lost themselves just to find one another, lips shivering, hands ablaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, comments and criticism are welcome. i hope you are all well.  
> peace and love,  
> agora
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/agowa_)  
> [tumblr](https://meltiers.tumblr.com)


	7. pluto projector

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _George’s voice cut through his lifeless nostalgia. “I guess we’re just two fucked up kids, huh?”_
>> 
>> _Clay chuckled. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I guess we are.”_  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!!! its agora back with another chapter. this one is a little heavy and a lot of things happen and are unearthed here so do read with caution. i love this chapter and i hope you do to. enjoy <3

“What was your dream about?”

The sun had begun to set now, as they sat together in the cemetery. They hadn’t moved from each other, time forgotten and duties ignored.

They had shifted now, with George gently nestled atop the thick of Clay’s lap, watching as the sky began to streak orange and pink amidst the blue. Clay couldn’t stop looking at him, watching as his eyes fluttered closed, hands laid limply on his chest.

“My dream?” He murmured, brushing a stray hair off George’s forehead. “I dreamt we woke up together, I told you.”

“I know,” George’s voice was laced with teasing incessance. “But what happened?”

Clay hummed. He looked up, at the silhouettes of birds as they made for their home up north. “I woke up first,” he started, twisting a tendril of George’s hair around his pointer finger. “It wasn’t my bedroom. It was a room I’d never seen before. I think,” he breathed in, letting the crisp chill air fill his heavy lungs. “I think it was our room. Our home. Your clothes were all over the place, and so were mine.”

George smiled. “So in your dream, we lived together?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a nice dream.”

“It was.” _I kissed you. I kissed you and, for the first time, felt like I could love again._ Clay shuddered slightly at the memory of George next to him, the memory soaked in earnest intimacy. “It was honest, and true.”

They had spent the last few hours talking through their lives. Clay had told him stories of his family before his father had died, stories of family trips and how his father cut oranges every morning for both him and his sister to take to school.

“He wasn’t a perfect dad,” Clay had smiled at the sepia-toned memory. “But I knew he loved us. And I think that’s enough.”

“What was he like?”

“Serious. Quiet. He loved in his own little way.” Clay closed his eyes, heart aching beautifully as he recollected just years before. “He was always listening, you know? I would talk once about a book I wanted to read, and the next week, there it would be, sitting on my table.”

“He sounds sweet.” George’s words were soft, permeating through the clouds of hazy memory Clay teetered over. “Did you love him?”

“So much,” Clay whispered. “It was so hard to admit. But I loved him more than I bothered to care. It was complicated, how he loved and how my mother needed to be loved.”

“I know what that’s like,” George muttered.

Clay hummed, words dying on his tongue with the temptation to share it with George, to share it all with George. To bare his soul, the brevity of his memory threatening to strike a match and burn the walls of evasion he’d spent the last year trying to build.

“What were your parents like?” Clay asked softly.

George breathed in sharply, his eyes daring to meet Clay’s. “Terrible,” he laughed, non committedly. “They hated each other.”

Clay nodded, not knowing what else to say.

“They fought every day,” George’s hands came up to hold Clay’s jaw, slackened and relaxed as he watched George’s lips move fluently. “It wasn’t a pretty sight, ever. I’m glad I got out of there.”

They didn’t speak for a moment, watching each other’s eyes. George whispered, “I’m glad I met you.”

Clay’s heart melted even in the winter chill, descending upon them against the backdrop of the dying sun. It gripped him, hard, squeezing the air out of his lungs. “Why did you move here?”

“My father,” he explained. “He just wanted to go somewhere, anywhere he didn’t have to deal with my mother.” He stroked his slender fingers against Clay’s cheek, eyes lost in wonder. “My mother, bless her soul, she’s not the most perfect mother either.”

“Who is, really?”

George nodded soundlessly. “But she came to find me, every time.” His words dropped to a whisper now. “I love her, I do. I want to be with her, live out every day with both of them at my side.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Anger got the best of the both of them,” George’s hand came back down to hold Clay’s, tethering himself to reality. Clay could feel the shake in his voice as he continued, his feet dangling dangerously off the edge of a distant memory. “It changed her more than it changed him. I sometimes don’t really recognise her anymore.”

Clay let him close his eyes, breathing softly, slowly. “I’m sorry,” He murmured, bending down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. His skin was cold, soft. “I didn’t know.”

George smiled, pushing himself up to rest on his palms, eyes level with Clay’s. “Don’t be. I’ve never told anybody these things before.”

“Me neither.” Clay’s chest felt weightless for the first time in what felt like centuries. “You know more than anyone, right now.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” his words flitted between the two of them. George pushed himself closer, chasing the tenderness of his words. “I always tried to keep my life to myself, but you,” he watched in paralysing shock, frenetic hunger as George inched closer. “You pried me open,” he was breathless.

“You let me.”

They looked at each other for a moment, an electrifying moment, in silence as the world burned to the ground, flames licking their skin, ebbing away at any semblance of anything human. Clay paid no attention, his hands and arms pinned by George’s tinted gaze.

_If I die with you, let me die a thousand times._

“Can I kiss you?” Clay’s voice was wrecked, strained, plagued with adoration.

George’s response was immediate. “Please.”

They collided, two stars in glittering oblivion, wrapping around each other like their lives depended on it. It wasn’t at all like the kiss in Sam’s kitchen. It was rushed and gentle, electrifying and comforting all at once. A torrent of fire lapping at their bodies, white caps lulling them into the dark unknown lit only by stars, where souls come to meet and say hello.

George’s lips were warm, stroking a steady flame in the glowing hearth of Clay’s ribcage, breathing fluttering embers. His hands were warm, coming up to thread itself in Clay’s golden wisps of hair. His fingernails scratched gently, pushing further and deeper and closer, and Clay opened. Clay broke apart, letting George consume his soul, traces of heated electricity running up his arms where George’s other hand trailed thoughtlessly.

It was honest. It was true. It was everything Clay had dreamed of, surrounded by idyllic golden. He dug his hands into George’s sides, pressing harder, wanting, desiring, burning for more. Their lips moved with wordless agreement, somehow knowing, somehow familiar. It was like they had known each other lifetimes ago, died and reincarnated into souls who still remembered the arching of their mouths.

Clay pulled away first, with cautious grace. George’s pupils were blown, hazed over in elated hunger, like he’d been waiting for the same thing Clay had been dying for.

He liked to believe that was true.

“Again?” Uneven breaths pushed past his shuddering lips, melting his restraint. He wanted to pull George into him, let the space close between them. Snake his arms around George’s smaller figure, and relish in the safety it brought him. “Do that again.”

George smiled slightly, leaning in slowly. “Of course,” he murmured against Clay’s lips. The moment their lips connected again, Clay pushed with gentle ferocity. With heavy breaths they kissed, and Clay could feel it everywhere.

In his head, in his chest, the dull thrum of life streamed through his veins. He could feel George’s pulse at the back of his throat and he knew, he _felt_ , George succumbed to that same rush of heat that hummed between their bodies. Clay’s hands rucked up his stupid periwinkle cardigan, running down his smooth back.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, pulling their lips apart for just a second. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

George’s cheeks dusted a deep pink. “I think you’re pretty decent yourself,” he murmured, giggling against Clay’s smiling lips. They pressed together again, chasing that liquid fire that threatened to vanquish them and take the world around them along with it.

Their chests pressed flush against each other. _Not close enough,_ he thought, threading his hands around George’s ribcage, heaving him on top of himself. George whimpered slightly, knees shifting to straddle Clay’s hips, settling down on his lap. _There. Better._

His lips grazed George’s chin, nosing his way down to the column of his neck, milky white expanse unmarred. He wanted to mark it. Suck bruises into the skin, feel the way George would shudder under his touch, but he reined himself in, dragging his lips up slowly.

George’s breath shivered. His lips were stained red, kiss-bitten and full. Clay’s hand came up, crawling slowly up from George’s chest, to his collarbones, to wrap around his throat. He pressed, ever so slightly, and watched in wonder as George’s eyes fluttered shut, breath hitching, reacting so beautifully to even the slightest of touches.

“You like this,” Clay murmured, gentle and awestruck and lovingly. “don’t you?”

George keened. “What are you doing to me?”

His response was whispered, shaded in the secrecy of the foliage, the burning intensity of their locked gaze. “I’m worshipping you.”

The noise that escaped George’s throat was godly.

The jingling of keys shocked them out of the kiss-drunk stupor, followed by a distinctly exhausted voice, “We’re locking the cemetery now, better come out before you spend the night with the dead.”

_Wouldn’t be the first time_ , Clay thought to himself.

George answered for him. “In a minute!” He looked back down at Clay, face painted navy with the early winter night. “How long have we been here?”

“Long enough,” Clay breathed. “I think we’ve desecrated these graves far too much.”

George’s fingers brushed Clay’s lips, bathed in baneful beauty. “I think they enjoyed the show.”

They laughed, a gentle smile ripping both their faces. Clay got up, swallowing down the fluttering feeling in his stomach, panting in shallow breaths. He extended his hand for George, who took it kindly and pulled himself up.

As they walked out, passing a kind looking old man holding a comically large set of keys, they dust remains of snow and dirt off their pants. The winter days had been becoming warmer now, spring peeking its head around the corner.

“Aren’t you cold?” Clay murmured as they walked slowly, hands dangling, brushing against each other’s. George stuck his pinkie out, wrapping it around Clay’s.

“Not really,” he responded. His arm came up, wiggling around in the large woollen sleeve. “This cardigan is surprisingly warm.”

“You wear it all the time.”

“Well,” George laughed. “yeah, it’s my favourite cardigan.”

Clay eyed his pale, thin wrists, littered with soft brown moles and freckles. Gentle admiration bloomed in the garden of his heart. _You’re pretty._ “It’s pretty.”

“Thank you,” he said, voice dropping to a low note. “My mom knitted it for me.”

Clay couldn’t help but joke, “Is that why it’s so monstrously big?”

A playful swat hit him in the back of his head. “Hey!” George laughed. “She tried her best, and I love her for it.”

Clay could feel his walls crumbling, bit by bit, doused in gasoline, drenched in the heavy fire by George’s hand. The stroking embers licked at his open heart as he looked down at the small boy next to him, skipping along where his feet couldn’t keep up to Clay’s long strides. He wanted to hold him again, touch his sides, trail up to cradle his neck. He wanted to dip down to his lips and taste him again, his wired shoulders tense just thinking about it.

He stopped in the middle of the road, deserted but still alive. Houses glowed homely along the stretches that surrounded them, chatter filling the air.

George looked back at him, face illuminated by the fluorescent street lamps. “Clay?” He asked softly. “Why’d you stop?”

He wanted to slither through his veins, touch his heart. He wanted to press his mouth to George’s pulse points, feel it race against his lips.

“Can I,” he tried to push weightless breath out his throat. “Can I kiss you again?”

He watched as George melted. He watched as George closed in on him, dropping their intertwined fingers, snaking his hands around Clay’s neck. He watched as George tiptoed and whispered against his mouth, “You don’t have to ask.”

He watched as George kissed him again, and he bloomed.

It was short, chaste, playful. It was everything George was. The world faded away around them, and Clay couldn’t care less about kids who would stumble out onto their lawns just to see two boys, pushing back against a tree as their mouths melded together.

They pulled apart in harmonious cacophony. Blood rushed through Clay’s ears, watching as George’s pupils blew wide, lips parted helplessly, cheeks dusted red.

_I want this, every day._

“You’re a good kisser,” he mumbled absentmindedly.

_I want you, every day._

Clay kissed him again.

* * *

Clay had walked him all the way home. They skipped up the all-too-familiar steps, the ones he had left George on just the night before, half-drunk and half-sober and eyes begging for Clay to come in.

He held that memory at arm’s length, teasing it over a fire. He didn’t want to remember it. He wanted to remember this, their hands intertwined, their veins weaved together, reluctant to part.

“This is me,” George echoed from the night before. “Thanks for walking me home.”

“Of course.” Clay twiddled his thumbs, feeling the growing buzz of infatuated anxiety eat at him slowly. “I, uh, I’m glad I saw you today.”

George laughed, his eyes crinkling. “That’s an understatement.” He took another tentative step up, before looking back. “I don’t suppose I should ask you to come in this time.”

Clay chuckled. “I think I should go home. My mom’s probably wondering where I am.” He glanced down quickly at his watch. _6:36._

“Another time then,” George’s voice was sweet, trickling like honey and gilded expectation. His hand came up to cradle Clay’s jaw in his warm palm, brushing his fingers softly. “I’ll see you around?”

Clay nodded.

George’s hand fell.

He pushed down on the handle, and Clay’s heart pounded. “Wait.”

A step up and a shoulder turned. They collapsed into one another once more, swaying slightly as Clay dipped his head down to capture George’s lips in his. His hands made home around his sides, hands splayed against his upper back, and pulled him tightly against him.

He bit down gently on George’s bottom lip, feeling the boy below him moan softly into his mouth. Tangled in each other’s embrace, they let themselves burn to the core, leaving nothing but ashes and the hope reincarnated.

Clay pulled away first. “I really like you,” he confessed, ripping his chest open with the weight of years-long desire. “I _really_ like you.”

George stared at him in wild yearning. Their chests grew together, breathing in sync as they descended from their adrenaline high.

He was breathless, wind knocked out of him. “I really fucking like you too.”

* * *

The quiet was finally comfortable.

When he reached back home, his mother asked only once. “Who was that?” Her watery smile warmed his heart as she set the plates down on the table. He stalked over to the kitchen drawer, pulling out the utensils.

“He’s…” The words debated on his tongue. “a friend.”

That would have to do for now. He watched as his mother nodded, a knowing look glinting in her eye. Just for a fleeting moment, he considered telling her about George, telling her about his nights down at the cemetery, telling her more than he’s ever said in his life.

His sister bounded down the stairs. _Another time,_ he thought.

He shuffled to bed after doing the dishes, making light conversation with his mother, who seemed drained and ready for bed the moment the clock struck nine. He held her in his open arms, wrapping her in a warm hug.

“He would be proud of you too,” he whispered to his mother. She tried to hide her tears as she kissed him softly on the cheek, before bidding both siblings goodnight and retreating upstairs.

His phone glowered in the dark room.

**Hey.**

He couldn’t help the smile that blossomed across his face. He leaned back on his headboard, grabbing his earpieces from his bedside table.

**hey** , he texted, plugging it in and pressing play. **i miss you already.**

A gentle melody filled his heart. _The great protector,_ the crooning voice sang. _Is that what I’m supposed to be?_

**You’re ridiculous. It’s been three hours.**

Clay grinned, poised to reply with some scathing joke, when George cut him off.

**I miss you too.**

A wave of crushing admiration swelled in his chest. Left breathless, he screwed his eyes shut.

_Seventy mil projector, I can show you everything._

**you’ll kill me one day.**

The music drowned his anxieties, the building melody soft as he lay a heavy arm across his eyes. He wanted George with him, here under the covers, peppering soft, wet kisses across his jaw, capturing every breath, pushing gentle noises out of him.

His fantasy was interrupted with the ringing of his phone, cutting through violin swells and a call into the world. He opened his eyes, staring down at his illuminated screen. _GEORGE_ , it read.

He picked up.

“I’ll die with you,” George said first.

He wanted to press himself into George. He wanted to melt into him, melding their hearts into one, think his thoughts, speak his truth. He wanted everything with him.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.” He said, breathless. “You’re everywhere I look.”

He could hear George’s breathing hitch. Clay’s heart was erratic, beating itself out of its confines, banging on the doors of his ribcage. “I can’t stop thinking about you too,” George said finally.

He doused reality with a can of gasoline. “I wish you were here.”

“Me too,” George’s whisper struck a match, threatening to drop it. “Were you busy before I called?”

“No, no,” Clay reassured. “I was just listening to some music.”

George hummed. A pleasant silence filled their call, just the simple sound of breathing and the atmosphere of company enough to put Clay at ease. He calmed his excitable heart.

“Tell me something.” George’s voice was soft, pressing on gentle keys.

“Like what?”

“Anything- just, something.”

Clay chuckled. “Hm,” he pondered. “I bumped the front of my mom’s car while driving it the other day. There’s a dent and I’m pretty sure she hasn’t noticed it yet.”

George’s light giggle floated through the call. “You’re a terrible son,” he joked. “You have to tell her.”

“I don’t want to!” Clay argued light-heartedly. “It’s not worth it. If she never finds it, no one gets into trouble.”

They laughed together. Clay wondered when was the last time he’d ever felt so safe around somebody.

He got up slowly, switching his phone to speaker as he fired up his computer. He wanted the melody of the song to drift in the air, pollinating the call with the soft lyrics. The song started over, and he swayed slightly as he crossed back to bed.

“I can hear the song,” George said. “It sounds nice.”

“It is,” Clay agreed, wrapping himself back into his comforter. “I think of you when I listen to it.”

_Spending the years together, growing older every day._

“Why?”

Clay hummed to the soft tune, the emptiness of his bed stretching through plains and roads and melding in the middle between his house and George’s. “It feels familiar, you know?” He started, staring up at his boundless ceiling. “Even the first time I listened to it, it felt like I knew every lyric by heart. It felt like generations ago, I heard it, and I never forgot it.”

_I feel at home when I’m around you, and I’ll gladly say again;_

“It felt the same way when I met you,” He could hear George’s steady breathing over the phone, and he begged his voice not to falter. “It felt almost familiar, every time we talked. Like I was visiting an old friend, like I was meeting someone I knew so much about.”

George’s voice was quiet. “Even though we’d never met before.”

“Exactly.” Clay softened at the tone of his voice. “Even though we’d never met before.”

They were silent for a moment before George’s voice cut through. “I’ve never really known _familiar_ in my life.”

_I hope the encore lasts forever, now there’s time for us to spend._

It was a simple admission, a small qualm, but Clay’s heart ached to hold his. “What do you mean?”

“When my parents separated, it was like my whole life was uprooted.” He began gently. “My dad took me and we started moving from town to town, trying to find somewhere I could be normal. But my mom kept looking for us.”

_And it’s sublime with you, my friend._

Clay stayed silent. He could hear George reminiscing, letting the ghost of his past haunt him. He continued, “At first I couldn’t understand why. Why we had to keep moving, why we couldn’t let her join us.” He laughed dryly. “Of course, I was still a kid back then. I was stupid, and naïve, and thought every problem could be solved with love.”

_This right here still feels like a honeymoon._

“When we moved here a couple months ago, my dad told me everything.” His breathing hitched, and Clay wanted nothing more than to tear through roads and pavements and hold him as he cried softly. “She threatened him, every day they were together. She’d gone mad with anger, resentment at my dad. She threatened to kill him and take me, run away where they’ll never find her, and she could live in bliss knowing that nothing could take her freedom away.”

_When you say my name, nothing’s changed._

“George,” Clay’s voice was hoarse. His chest ached with a cross between anger and sadness, pity rising from the pits of his stomach. “I’m sorry.”

George chuckled lightly. “It’s okay,” he mused. “It’s been a while since we moved here. We cut off contact with the whole family so she can’t get a hold of us. Since we’re halfway across the world, I doubt she’ll find us.”

_I’m still a boy inside my thoughts._

“I don’t know what to say,” Clay dropped simply. “I wish I could hold you.”

George sighed. “I wish you could.”

_Am I meant to understand my faults?_

“I could totally come over right now. You live like 15 minutes away, I could just run-“

He was cut off by a small laugh. “No, Clay. It’s late, and I’m quite happy like this.” He cleared his throat. “Just having you here, that’s enough for me.”

Clay’s eyes fluttered close, breath shuddering. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

The reply was challenging. “Really?”

“Yeah,” his voice, soaked in honesty and good will, scratched his throat. He echoed, “Everything I’ve ever wanted.”

_I don’t think so._

“My dad died in a car crash.”

_I don’t think I’m meant to understand myself._

“He was driving on ice, and he just. Slipped off the road.”

_Maybe you do._

“It was right after a fight with my mom,” Clay’s voice faltered, his eyes squeezing shut as if in pain. He hated reliving his past. He hated talking about his father’s last day. He hated it, he hated it, he hated it.

_And that’s good for you._

But he couldn’t stop. He wanted to tell this story, just one more time. To a boy, over the phone, who clawed his inhibitions apart, and lay nestled sound asleep in a crevice of his heart. “I don’t even know what they were fighting about, but they both got so angry.” He pushed past the stoppering thick in his throat, threatening to subdue him. “I think it was some shit about money, or something. My mom hated spending on things we don’t need, but my dad, my dad-“

_Maybe in time, maybe one day, I’ll do the same._

“He loved spending money on us. Like that book I told you about, or some new game my sister wanted. ‘What’s money for if I can’t spoil my children?’ he’d always joke.”

The music swelled in time with his tears, pricking the back of his eyes. He wiped them away carelessly with the back of his palm. “Clay,” he heard George say, and another onslaught threatened him. The softness of his voice writhed in his sternum, and Clay wanted nothing more than to melt into it.

“He went for a drive. And he didn’t come back.”

Clay remembered the moment he’d gotten the news. He’d remembered them shouting, a stupid argument that should have ended with a hug, a gentle kiss, and his father still alive. But he heard the door slam, the car start, and that was the end of the life he knew.

His mother answered the door, in the middle of the night. Pajama-clad and sleepy-eyed, him and his sister crept down the stairs into the bath of red and blue light and soft murmuring.

He heard his mother choke, and he knew.

“My mother hated herself for it for the longest time,” he continued. “Resented herself for not saying sorry, for not telling him she loved him one last time. He was dead long before they found his body.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I never knew whether he did it on purpose, you know?” Clay laughed hollowly through his tears. “They say it had to be his own manoeuvre that caused him to crash, there wasn’t any ice that he could have skidded on. I don’t think so, though, but I’ll never know.”

_Old enough to understand._

George’s voice cut through his lifeless nostalgia. “I guess we’re just two fucked up kids, huh?”

_Old enough to understand._

Clay chuckled. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I guess we are.”

_Stay forever, you know more than anyone._

_And it's you that knows my darkness,_

_And you know my bedroom needs._

_You could blast me and my secrets._

_But there's probably just no need._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song is pluto projector by rex orange county (although you should know that, it's so good)! 
> 
> this chapter is honestly such a large weight off my chest. it's one of the three chapters i've had planned since the start of waterlily and i'm so glad it's here. i hope you find comfort in it and the realism of life. 
> 
> thank you to my wifey loglady for being with me as i wrote this. this chapter is for you.
> 
> till next time, lovelies.
> 
> agora
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/agowa_)  
> [tumblr](https://meltiers.tumblr.com)
> 
> also i made a spotify! all the songs i listened to while writing waterlily are in it. do check it out if you want :]  
> [waterlily playlist](https://t.co/aN6XKnQsUO?amp=1)


	8. begin again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _He looked at the boy who changed him, who made him anew, who kissed him and set him free._   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it's been almost three weeks since the last chapter and i am. Sorry. thank you so much for being so patient with me on this journey. i had a lot of trouble with what i wanted to come out of this chapter. it's a long one, so grab some water and enjoy <3

Spring came quietly, fields in vibrant colour, snow melting on the sidewalk. It was as welcomed as it was lovely- admired by all, enamoured by the chirruping songbirds and the trees finally growing in shades of amber. The chill had finally settled, and the sun in all of its glory spilled into the sky, trimming each wonderful cloud with a skirt of warm golden.

Clay let the time pass him by. He spent every day with George now, taking walks to different parts of town, running through fields of gilded expectation and the liberating feeling of finally not being alone. He never tired being by George’s side- it was blissful, explosive, to hold his hand and to kiss him sweetly.

_What are we?_ he always thought but never asked. _Who do I want us to be?_

As time began to grow, so did their friendship. So did their flirting, bordering on the outskirts of romantic. So did their texts, phone illuminating a dark room in the ungodly hours of the night, Clay riled awake by screenshots of George’s favourite jokes. Their nights blended into their days, staying on Netflix parties and watching shitty romcoms and laughing together at bad acting.

“This is so fucking awful,” George would laugh. “That kiss was terrible. You and I could do a better job.”

Clay’s breath would stutter and his eyes flicker up to where George sat in the corner of his screen. He’d try to laugh it off, brush away the thought of George’s warm lips on his. It wasn’t uncommon- every time they met they greeted each other with a kiss, sweet and chaste and Clay would never admit that he wanted more.

“Yeah,” he’d joke, his heart pushing past his ribcage, aching to hold George. “We could do so much better.”

As time began to grow, so did Clay’s adoration.

They’d spend time together in the school library, strolling between shelves where their love had first grew that day in detention. They’d sneak each other kisses in between pages of old books, laugh in unspoken tongues, watch as passages of prose glittered gold as they read it aloud to one another.

They sat across from each other now, leaning against bookshelves, bathed in the homely aura of the library. They were alone, only the passing freshman coming to find a specific book and then getting out, not even sparing a glance at the two boys tangled in each other in the classics aisle.

“ _He hadn’t known it could be mentioned,_ ” George read quietly, his voice like hushed song echoing through the silence of the library. Clay wanted to sink into it, let the waves of his comfort drag him under. “ _and when Durham did so in the middle of the sunlit court, a breath of liberty touched him."_

They breathed together in synchronicity, their eyes daring to meet each other’s. “I like this book,” Clay admitted. “It feels like- it feels real.”

“I like it too,” George smiled, their legs threading together. “Clive gets really asshole-ly around the middle, though.”

Dream chuckled. They’d been getting through different classics that George had read and loved before, and Clay enjoyed every bit of it. It was the closest Clay had every let himself be around anyone, in the dying light of the spring afternoon, surrounded by no one but the one person who melted his walls down.

“Do you wanna stop here?” George asked, thumbing the pages of the book. He glances up at the windows, watching as golden poured through the stained glass. “We’ve been here for hours.”

“I could stay here forever,” Clay whispered, and watched as George’s cheeks dusted pink. “I love hearing you read to me.”

George rolled his eyes, a small smile tipping the corner of his lips as he rose to rest on his knees. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not.”

George reached forward, pressing a soft kiss on Clay’s cheek. “Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s get home.”

Clay captured George’s chin in his fingers, their lips just about brushing against each other’s. “No,” he pleaded. “Stay.”

George breathed, breath hot against Clay’s skin. “You’re so clingy.”

“You like it.”

They laughed together, and Clay kissed him, aching with innocent desire, with the urge to hold him forever, watch as the world died around them. George rested his hands on the side of Clay’s face, their chests swelling against one another. 

Clay braced his hands on George’s hips, dragging him forward until they pressed against each other, scrambling for _more, closer, please let me have you._

He could feel George smile in the kiss, their lips moving with tasteful grace, burning skin against burning skin. The excitement never faltered- each kiss they shared tasted of both comfortable danger and edged familiarity, like two halves of the same body sewn back together, kisses sealing seams shut. 

Clay’s hands found George’s waist and squeezed slightly, pulling away carefully.

“We’ve defiled this library,” George mumbled against his skin.

Clay laughed, his chest free, sternum light. “I like to think we’re the best thing that’s ever happened to it.”

They pulled each other up, George’s hand wrapping around Clay’s like a vice. Their fingers intertwined with one another’s as they shuffled through school hallways and out into the spring afternoon. Clay bent down to a bush, plucking a blue hydrangea from the leaves.

“Here,” he murmured, brushing George’s hair from his ear, tucking the soft, delicate flower over the shell of his ear. “Your favourite colour.”

George smiled, warm and bubbling and adoring. He reached on his tiptoes and kissed Clay again, short and sweet and _loving._ It took Clay’s breath away, no matter how many times they did this.

_Do you want me, George?_ He thought as his eyes fluttered shut. _Do you want me like I want you?_

His lips seemed to answer, loud and crystal clear, but Clay still wanted to hear it. He wanted to place his heart next to George’s and watch the sun rise and fall every day. He could hear oceans crash against the breakwaters, white caps lulling them to a gentle slumber as they parted, a small trail of spit connecting their lips.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” George asked, voice sweet as honey. Clay watched the sun set in his eyes.

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

The urge to pull him in for one last kiss was overwhelming, to ask him, _what are we, George?_ But he fought it, washing it over with saccharine heartache. Clay watched as George walked away, turning back one last time to flash him a dizzying smile.

_One day,_ Clay thought. _One day I’ll never have to say goodbye._

* * *

He hadn’t been back here since the last 27th. Not since feelings were made clear, and the patch of snow-dampened earth was sweetened with the confession spoken in secret kisses, in wonderstruck desire.

But now he sat in the setting sun, watching as the sheets of golden made home on his father’s gravestone. Wind rustled through the foliage, tree leaves dancing along to the song of the birds that nested in its heart.

He looked down at his fingers, long and lonely and aching to find George’s soft, pale hands. His face softened into a gentle smile.

_Do you want me, George?_ A question thrown into the horizon, pulling the sun down with it. _Do you want me like I want you?_

It was a question that lingered in the air, unasked, a future uncertain, a potential never sought. It was an answer Clay didn’t want to hear, for fear it wasn’t the answer he wished for months it would be.

But it had to be asked.

“Just not today,” he whispered to the stone. “I don’t know when, but not today.”

_Why not?_ He could feel it ask.

“I don’t know whether I want to know his answer,” he confessed. “I don’t know if this is all it is to him. I don’t know whether he wants the things I want.”

The wind picked up slightly, whistling as it whipped past his ears. The sunshine kissed his skin with careful grace, and he wanted to stay here forever.

A bitter taste of selfishness tanged on his tongue. “I want more than he could ever give me.”

The stone and he sat in silence for a beat, and once again, he wished for his father to come back. To hold him by the shoulders, to see him cry. To be there again, a man who was once in his place, to guide him into knowledge and through the passes of life, errors and mistakes a plenty.

_Come what may,_ his father once said to him. _I will be there for you, come what may._

“So where are you now, Dad?”

His solitude was broken, a jarring break from his daydream, by a familiar voice. “I knew I’d find you here.”

A strange comfort washed his wounds clean. “Sapnap,” he breathed, turning around. “What are you doing here?”

Sapnap strolled towards him, his keys jangling as he dangled the keyring from his fingers. He squinted into the sun. “Jesus, I can’t even see you in this light.”

Clay chuckled, catching his free hand and dragging him down to sit on the grass with him. “What are you doing here?” He asked again, watching the way the sun melted Sapnap’s dark eyes into glittering ochre.

“I dropped by your house, man,” he explained. “Your sister said you might be here.”

“Ah,” Clay drew his knees up to his chest, hugging them tightly. He stared at his best friend, studying the bits of his chin he’d missed while shaving. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

In his heart, he’d known. They hadn’t spent as much time together since Clay and George had gotten together- _if he could even call it that!-_ and Sapnap’s calls had gone to voicemail multiple times now. His heart sank, chipping away as he looked at his friend, thinking of what to say.

It seemed Sapnap had the same problem. He stumbled over his words, and Clay decided to have mercy on him.

“You were right, you know.” Clay admitted. “About that night when I called you here. Something did change.”

Sapnap laughed. “I know, stupid. We talked about this at the party.”

Clay gave way to a smile, the reassuring comfort of his best friend so far away, yet so familiar. “I thought you were too drunk to remember.”

Sapnap smacked him upside the head, his laughter loud and boisterous against the delicate silence of the graveyard. Life bounced back, and Clay finally felt at peace, here, in this dimension, in this moment.

“He was what changed. You were right about that.” They basked together in the dying afternoon sun, letting the gentle rhythm of conversation carry them afloat. “I don’t even know how it happened. All I remember was him, in the gas station, and then suddenly he was everywhere.”

“The gas station? Like, where you work?”

“Yeah,” Clay nodded. “He came in twice, bought, like, a fuck ton of ramen.” He chuckled to himself, the honey-tipped memory sweet on his tongue. “I have no idea how he ate that much ramen.”

Sapnap sat in silence as Clay trailed through his recollection, palming through forests of memory. “I think-“ Clay started, trying to find the right words. “I think a lot changed when my dad died.”

He watched Sapnap nod slowly, and continued. “I know you saw it. I dropped out of the football team, I stopped talking to everyone but you-“

“But me! I forced you to talk to me every day,” Sapnap swelled with innocent pride. “Remember when I forced you to go to that carnival with me?”

“The summer one?” Clay laughed. “How could I forget? I hated it the whole time.”

“No, you didn’t. You had fun,” Sapnap jostled, bumping shoulders with Clay. “I remember you being so adamant on getting on the viking ride that you hyped yourself up for an hour, and you ended up pussying out.”

“It was scary, okay!”

“The viking is _not scary._ ”

“To you,” Clay murmured, burying his face in his hands. “Not scary to _you_.”

Sapnap chuckled, wrapping his arm around Clay’s shoulder. “I do remember that,” He confessed softly. “And I remember being worried you were never gonna snap out of it.”

Clay looked up at him, at the genuine concern that etched in the planes and angles of his face. “I was scared of that too,” he admitted. “But George… George changed that.”

He wondered to himself why he kept this a secret from Sapnap for so long, why the words kept dying on his tongue every time Sapnap greeted him with a loud smile and bubbling laughter at school. For so long it had been him and Sapnap, Sapnap and him, Sapnap doing the most for Clay as he traversed through a new life without his dad.

“I didn’t mean for any of it to happen,” Clay murmured. “I didn’t think it could. But suddenly he was everywhere I looked, and I found myself wanting to walk with him, talk to him.” His hand trailed slowly up to his throat, fingers fluttering against his collarbones. “I felt… something. Something new, something I hadn’t felt since…”

“Since your dad died,” Sapnap finished for him, voice laced the slightest hint of gentle sorrow.

Clay nodded, eyes dropping to the patch of grass they sat on. He twiddled absent-mindedly on a strand of grass. _He’s the first thing I’ve felt in ages,_ the memory burnt a hole in his mind, shaking knees and sobbing hands gripping firm stone. “He’s the first thing I’ve felt in ages.”

He said it. He wanted to eat his words, stuff them all back into his mouth and swallow them thickly, but he breathed slowly. There were said, a confession that was lost to whipping winds and winter chill, spoken aloud again in shimmering spring.

He dared to look into Sapnap’s eyes, and all he could see was mirth.

“You admitted it,” Sapnap said, a grinning breaking onto his face. “You finally admitted it.”

Clay felt like he could cry, picture perfect façade cracking as he laughed with his best friend, incredulous at the confession he’d just made. It was real, now, _real_ enough to be seen and heard, tasted and felt by people other than him and the gravestone.

“We could tell, you know.” Sapnap chided, his arm pulling Clay in towards him, shoulder bumping shoulder. “It was always you going off to find him in the library, or walking home with him. Karl was the first one to point it out.”

Clay smiled as he chortled, talking on and on about how Clay’s eyes lit up with every text notification he’d gotten from George, the way they’d looked at each other at Sam’s party. Sapnap stopped suddenly, looking Clay in the eyes. “I’m happy for you, Clay,” he started. “He’s made you happier than I’ve ever seen you.”

His heart tightened. He wondered if he could say the same for George, if Clay made him happier than he’s ever been.

_Do you want me like I want you?_

“I don’t know if he wants me.”

Sapnap looked at him, and snorted. “Of course he does,” his eyes were laced with incredulity, eyebrows knitting together. “What makes you think that?”

Clay’s heart was hammering in his chest, mind reeling. He pondered for a minute whether to let it out, to tell Sapnap the tales and woes of their weeks spent together skirting around the subject of _dating, boyfriends,_ and, God forbid, _love._

_Fuck it_. He’d already come so far.

“We just- He just never really has an answer, you know? I’ve never really had the courage to ask him what we are, but every time we approach the subject, he just segues into a different one,” he spluttered, stumbling over his words in an attempt to keep normal, to get it all out of his brain before he regretted it and shut his mouth and never spoke again. “I want to know- _god,_ I want to know so badly, because every time we-“

He stopped. He bit his tongue until he drew blood. _This is your best friend_ , he coaxed himself. Sapnap looked at him, patiently waiting as Clay found the courage to continue.

“Every time we kiss,” he pushed out, breathless. “I feel so alive. I feel like I’m dying. I feel like I’ve never wanted anything more than him.”

They sat in tense silence for a second, the contemplative weight of Clay’s words eating steadily at his heart.

“Shit,” Sapnap chuckled. “You’re down bad, aren’t you?”

Clay couldn’t help the laugh that overcame him, whacking Sapnap’s shoulder with teasing malice.

“Where did it happen?” Sapnap questioned earnestly, blocking each of Clay’s attacking hands. “The first time?”

“Right here. I brought him to see Dad.”

“You _brought him here?_ ” His voice rose octaves higher, surprised disbelief lacing his words. “You brought him to see your dad. Holy shit,” he laughed airily. “You’re worse off than I thought.”

“Stop that!” Clay laughed, pulling his hands out of Sapnap’s tight grasp. “It was on the 27th. He asked me why I was busy, and I showed him why.”

“So you brought him to see your dead dad rather than just explain- _with words!_ \- why you weren’t free. Damn, if I’d known all it took for you to open up to me that fast was to be pretty and British-“

“You’re _not_ helping.”

“Right, sorry, sorry.” Sapnap wiped the tears from his eyes, wheezing as he sobered up. “I mean, shit, Clay. You really mean that?”

“Mean what?”

“He’s all you want,” Sapnap cleared his throat, swallowing his laughter and jokes. “That you’ve never wanted anything more than him.”

“With all my heart,” Clay muttered, his chest flooded with longing.

“Then go get him. I don’t know the kid, I’ll be honest. But if he means as much to you as you say he does, then,” Sapnap smiled, his comfort washing over Clay’s inhibitions. “Then there’s really nothing to lose, right?”

Clay sighed. “But- but what if I risk it, and he doesn’t want me the same way? I have _him_ to lose, and I don’t think I can let go of that. I’d rather live forever with him as my friend, than risk that feeling of finally being- being _alive._ ”

“Clay,” Sapnap started, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Trust me.” Knowing glinted in his eye, and Clay couldn’t help the temporary relief that came over him. “Talk to him. Don’t mess this up by being afraid. You’ve missed out too much of your life out of cowardice.”

The words hung in the air.

_Find me, Clay._

_Find me, and have me._

* * *

In Clay’s mind, he played the day they first kissed.

Singing, sweetly, swaying together as they walked down streets illuminated by lampposts. He remembered as they skipped up those damned stairs to George’s house, kiss-drunk and giggling.

He remembered how they kissed once more, bodies pressed flush together. He remembered how he pulled away, staring into glittering amber, and confessed.

_“I really like you,”_ he’d said.

He remembered the way George looked at him. Like he was yearning, longing, pining for the same love Clay so desperately wanted. _“I really fucking like you too.”_ he had said.

Clay buried his head into his pillow.

_Why haven’t we talked about that, George?_

_Why haven’t you given me an answer?_

Cold struck him in his heart, and he lay paralysed in his empty canvas bed.

_Did you mean it?_

_Did you mean it?_

* * *

The fluorescent light flickered slightly, and Clay looked up, squinting into the glare. “I’ve got to get that fixed,” he muttered, making a mental note he was sure he’d forget in the next fifteen minutes.

“How do you get through these shifts?” George whined, slumping onto the counter. “It’s been like, what, an hour?”

Clay chuckled, flicking his wrist to check the time. “Forty-five minutes.”

George let out a loud, guttural moan. “No fucking way you have to stay here for six hours at a time. I would fucking die if I was you.”

Clay smiled, his heavy hand coming up to stroke George’s head resting on the cashier counter. His hair was smooth, soft, and Clay could smell the lavender shampoo he used. George had complained how Clay always had to leave halfway through their nightly movie dates for work, and Clay jokingly quipped, “Well, why don’t you join me?” Twenty minutes later, George burst through the doors, the windchimes tinkling noisily to announce his entrance.

“No one’s even come in yet,” George murmured. “Take a nap with me.”

“I don’t wanna get fired, George.”

“No one would know!” George giggled. “Come on.”

George snaked his hand into Clay’s, pulling him down to sit on the floor behind the counter. Thank god he had the windchimes to alert him to someone’s arrival, because god knows he wasn’t going to be watching for them.

They sat together, knees drawn up to their chests. George leaned his head against Clay’s shoulder. “I brought the book,” George whispered. “Do you wanna continue reading?”

Clay hummed, and George reached into his bag and pulled out the torn and tattered copy of _Maurice_ , its spine breaking, pages yellowed and dog-eared. He thumbed through the pages to find where they’d stopped.

“ _Then savage, reckless, drenched with rain,”_ George began, his voice low and smooth. Clay leaned his head against the crown of George’s, swathed in lavender and sweat. “ _he saw in the first glimmer of dawn the window of Durham’s room, and his heart leapt alive and shook him to pieces.”_

Clay closed his eyes, his own heart pounding against his ribs. _Tell him. Ask him. Who are we, George?_

In the silence of the gas station, save only for the soft melody playing from the radio, George’s voice was angelic. “ _It cried, ‘You love, and are loved.’_ ”

They sat in quiet for a moment, the words lingering in the air. Clay wanted to hear them again, listen to the way it dropped from George’s lips, his mouth curving around the syllables.

It was almost telepathic, the way George echoed, “ _You love, and are loved._ ”

Clay’s hands trembled with the weighted question, with the risk of losing it all or having it all. He opened his mouth to speak, to promise, to love-

The windchimes tinkled.

He bolted upright, scrambling to stand and braced his hands on the counter. He watched as a man, exhaustedly in his forties, tired and yawning, walked through the door. Clay put on his customer service smile, and waited patiently for the man to make his rounds around the shop.

“Pump number seven,” the man muttered as he approached the counter, arms carrying a six pack of Redbull, and several bags of Sour Patch kids. He could see the man glance downward in muted curiosity at George sitting cross-legged on the floor, his eyes trained on the pages of the book.

Clay ran his items through the scanner in silence, fingers itching to finish so he could go back to that tense adoration that he and George shared every time they read together. “Your total is $49.50. Cash or card?”

The man slid his card over the glass counter, and picked up the food. “Thanks so much. Have a good night, you two.”

Clay smiled weakly. “Goodnight.”

He backed into the liquor cabinet that lined the wall behind the counter, and stared back down at George. “I’m sorry for interrupting.”

The other boy looked up with wide eyes and a soft smile. “Don’t worry about it. Come back down here.”

Clay was about to slide back down into his spot next to George. He reached for the set of keys that lay limp by the cash register, and turned to unlock the liquor cabinet.

George watched him in quizzical wonder. “What are you doing?”

“Getting a drink,” Clay muttered. “If we’re gonna be here for another five hours, might as well make the most of it.”

George chuckled, flipping the book on its opened page and watched as Clay unlocked the glass door, and slid it apart. His fingers wrapped around the neck of a Smirnoff bottle, and pulled it heavy out of the cabinet.

“Is this stealing?”

Clay shut the cabinet, locked it and tossed the keys back onto the counter. “They can take it out of my pay.”

He slid back down, handing the bottle to George, who popped off the cap and took a swig straight out of the bottle. He flushed red as he swallowed, his eyebrows pinching together in disgust.

Clay laughed as he coughed, spluttering, “That tastes _disgusting_. That was vile. How do people like that?”

He took the bottle out of George’s hands, and took a swig of it himself. The vodka was smooth, scorching his throat as it made its way down, and he fought back a grimace. “I don’t like it,” he admitted, clearing his throat. “But it makes things all the more interesting.”

“So this was your plan all along? To get me drunk here?”

Clay swatted him. “I didn’t even want you to come here,” he joked.

Feign hurt crossed George’s features. “Oh! Well, I guess I’ll be taking my leave then,” He fought a grin, beginning to get up.

“No!” Clay’s laugh was loud against the stillness of the gas station. “Don’t leave.” His fingers wrapped tightly around George’s waist, pulling him back down to Clay. He lowered George into his lap, his knees spread to straddle Clay’s hips. “Stay with me,” he whispered, breath hot against George’s exposed skin.

They looked at each other for a tense moment. George shifted slightly on Clay’s lap, and he bit back a groan. He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol that spurred him on or the racing desires that he’d unearthed, but he pushed forward nonetheless, capturing George’s wet lips in his.

It was fire, it was burning. Clay could taste the vodka soaked in George’s tongue, bitter and dry and painful, but he chased for it. He pushed deeper into George, and George let him, wrapping delicate arms around Clay’s neck, letting little noises slip out of his throat. Their mouths arched together, wet and messy and sloppy.

George’s hips moved ever so slightly against Clay’s jeans, and Clay had to stop mid-kiss to stop him before proof of his desire become tangible. “Don’t do that,” he whispered softly against George’s neck, and George hummed sweetly.

“Why not?” He asked, his amber eyes digging into Clay’s soul as he moved again, friction against burning friction fraying at the nerves in Clay’s brain. His hands flew to his hips, stilling George’s ministrations.

“George,” he warned, his voice low and brooding. “I said, don’t do that.”

George giggled, reaching to his side to pick up the bottle and taking a swig of confidence. He handed it back to Clay, who took it by the neck and drank again, feeling the sensitive burn of his throat as the liquid flowed through.

He could tell he was handling the alcohol a lot better than George, his subconscious only minutely affected. But George was drooping, burying his head in Clay’s shoulder.

“Come on, baby,” Clay muttered, the pet name slipping out before he could stop it. “I’ll get you some water.”

Clay slowly lifted George off his hips, and George smiled at him, picking up the book that lay forgotten on the linoleum floor. He walked around to the back where the staff kept the water bottles, and cracked one open for George.

“Here,” he said, handing him the plastic bottle. “Drink.”

George took the bottle with grateful fingers, chugging half the bottle before satiating the dryness in his mouth. They sat together on the floor again, Clay listening as George read to him again, words only slightly slurry. They took turns with the Smirnoff bottle, adrenaline coursing wildly through their veins. Eventually the book was tossed back into George’s bag, losing themselves in each other’s touch, quiet and delicate and ethereal.

Hours passed and nobody stepped foot into the gas station, much to the delight of the two boys. They leaned back against the back wall, stealing kisses and whispering secrets, wrapped tightly in each other. They left the bottle unfinished, finding more exhilarating experience in each other’s lips.

“I love this song,” George interrupted their kiss midway to sway to the music playing lowly from the gas station radio. He hastily got to his feet, pulling Clay up with him. “Come, dance with me.”

“I don’t know how to dance.”

George laughed softly. “You’re such an idiot,” he trilled, taking Clay’s big hands in his, placing one of his waist, and intertwining his fingers with the other. “Like this, and I’ll put my hand here,” he said, placing a warm hand on Clay’s shoulder.

He rested his head on Clay’s chest, and Clay could hear him humming the tune of the song.

_I am not the only traveller, who has not repaid his debt._

“I’ve heard this song before,” Clay murmured, loud enough for George to hear. “It’s sad.”

_I’ve been searching for a trail to follow,_

“’s beautiful,” George slurred, his feet fumbling slightly, clashing with Clay’s steps. Neither of them minded. “Don’t you think?”

_Take me back to the night we met._

“I think you’re beautiful,” Clay whispered.

He watched George’s pink cheeks grow even redder, smiling slightly into Clay’s hoodie. “You’re an idiot.”

_I had all and then most of you,_

Adrenaline raced through Clay’s veins, making home in the fear that struck his heart. _Tell him. Tell him. Tell him._ He breathed in, settling the qualms of his pounding heart. He hoped to god George couldn’t hear it.

_Some and now none of you._

“George,” he began.

_Take me back to the night we met._

“Yeah?”

The music seemed to blur together now as he looked down at George. He counted the freckles that littered his cheeks, he studied the way his nose tipped red. He held his slim waist, supple, soft skin under his touch.

“Did you mean it?”

“You’re gonna hav’ta be more specific, Clay.”

He wanted to swallow himself, dig himself into the ground and die there, lay his rotting corpse to sleep. His breath stung in his nose, but he pushed on. “When you said you liked me. Did you mean that?”

George’s breathing stuttered, and his steps faltered. “Did you?”

Clay’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ve never been more honest in my life.”

They locked eyes for a moment, one tantalising moment. “And what does that mean to you?” George asked, and Clay could see the tentative steps he was taking. He could see the worry in his eyes.

“It means…” He trailed off, unable to find his tongue- out of words, out of breath. Terrorised adoration pooled low in his abdomen, and he reached for heaven.

_It means I want you._

_I want you._

_I want you._

“I want you.”

He felt the same way he did the night they met, vulnerable and weak and open, defenseless arms welcoming the unknown. He held George with unsure fingers, and he was ready to run.

But George’s hand leaves his shoulder, cradled Clay’s tense jaw, his fingers stroking the wavering flame in Clay’s sternum. His voice was rich, true, saturated with honesty.

“I want you, too.” George whispered. “More than anything.”

Clay could cry. He could feel the prick of his tears behind his eyes, weeks of turbulent uncertainty, never really knowing, never really seeing, crumbling down at their feet. _He wants you. He wants you._

The clock struck six, and Clay glanced up just as the song fades to a close. “The shift’s over,” he whispered. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

Clay offered to walk George home, as he always does. He was familiar with the pavements that led up to his house, illuminated by warm orange as the sun began to rise. They shuffled home, arms wrapped around one another, stopping at every intersection for a kiss. George tiptoed to reach Clay’s lips, and they broke away in quiet giggles, before kissing again lazily. Whispered nothings and soft confessions carried them home, washing away the tide of anxiety that Clay had built up in his abdomen.

“Why did it take you so long?” George asked quietly as they stood together at a traffic light, watching as the occasional car bumbles past them.

“I don’t know,” Clay laughed. “I guess a part of me couldn’t imagine why you would want to be with me.”

“Don’t be stupid,” George swatted his arm. “You already knew I liked you.”

“I know! And we kissed all the time! But you always shied away from the topic, so I… I guess I doubted that you really meant it. Any of it.”

George stayed silent.

Clay bludgeoned on. “I wanted to wait until you were ready, ready to talk about it, ready to delve into something new.” His hand found George’s in the dim sunshine. “I wanted to see if you wanted me the way I wanted you.”

They reached George’s house, the familiar steps and the familiar oak door. George broke the steady silence that blanketed them. “I would never lie to you.”

Their hands squeezed together as they faced a new day, a new adventure. In the rising of the sun, they found each other. In the blooming spring, they grew. In the perfect world, they turned to laughter, to wonder, to love.

George spoke first. “Do you want to come in?”

Clay looked at George, watched as sheets of golden melted him into pools of glittering honey. His throat tightened, chest pounding in his ears.

Same question, different day.

Same question, different life.

He looked at the boy who changed him, who made him anew, who kissed him and set him free.

Clay nodded wordlessly, and he could feel the relief emanate from George's smile. They slipped into the house together, life beginning again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the book they're reading is maurice by e. m. forster, one of my favourite classic novels. i hope this chapter made sense to you as it did to me. sending you all my love.
> 
> agora 
> 
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